


Lies and Legitimacies

by thumbipeach



Category: Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen, Purple Hyacinth - Ephemerys & Sophism (Webcomic)
Genre: Excessive references to the opening line because I think I’m clever, F/M, Flower Symbolism, It'll be soft and spicy but Lauren is pissed off, I’m really doing this y’all, Jane Austen - Freeform, Kieran “how do I get her to like me” White, Lauren “sick of everyone’s shit” Sinclair, Mr. Darcy is the OG simp so take a wild fuckin guess as to who he is, SIMP!Kieran, but Simp!William too, but not obvious because I think everyone is sick of it, get ready for some MAJOR foolery, im not gonna stop tagging it, just making everything incomprehensible, me making Kieran miserable to compensate for the fact that he doesn’t kill anyone in this fic, period drama whoop de do, pride and prejudice au, tea and scones and banter, we sleep on that man and I will not allow it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:35:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25773718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thumbipeach/pseuds/thumbipeach
Summary: They, the outsiders to Lauren Sinclair’s tumultuous life, like to speak at length about truths that are typically universally acknowledged; such as the ever popular creed that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.But if this is the case, then she clearly is not part of any discernible universe. For Lauren Sinclair knows a thing or two about truths; and she can easily ascertain that whatever Kieran White really wants, it is not so simply told.She also knows that whatever he may be seeking, she has no desire to entertain it.—(Or: Pride and Prejudice AU)
Relationships: Lauren Sinclair/Kieran White, William Hawkes/Kym Ladell
Comments: 57
Kudos: 94





	1. The Aevasther Ball, and the Beginning of Lauren Sinclair’s Headache

**Spring, XX27**

“Well you _know_ what they say about single _men,_ Lauren—“

“Kym, my darling friend,” Lauren replied, breezing out from behind the archway in a dress she felt was suitable for a dance amongst the gauzy caricatures of men and women that would be attending the precipitant Aevasther ball—which was to say, not in the slightest.

The effusive skirt fell just below the delicate curve of her ankle, and the lace that rose up her neck like leeching vines felt rather like that than any comfort of fabric it was trying to be. She shifted in her bodice uncomfortably, smoothing down the bumps at her waist with harsh palms as she turned to her best friend, laid artfully on creamy pale cushions and eyeing her with a modicum of distaste, one befitting the only critic she’d allow in her graces.

“—You know just as well as I do that just because there will be single men attending, they will not be so unscrupulous as to blatantly seek out my affections.” She smiled, twisting a strand of auburn that had fallen out of her tight updo.

“Certainly not, in fact.”

“What?” Lauren turned, incredulous. “That’s a first—you agree with me?”

“Well,” Kym waved a hand from her position on the divan, a delicate ribbon caught in her fingers, “not in _whatever_ you’ve deigned to show me just now!”

Indeed, the silvery, fox-grey number of satin did not do wonders for Lauren Sinclair’s complexion; rather, the matte fabric caused the rest of her skin to look as though she had walked a thousand miles in the most torrential of downpours before coming home and slumping into bed at a wholly unreasonable hour. Though, Kym could begrudgingly concede that her friend looked good in much of anything regardless, blessed with an innate beauty and—perhaps most importantly—charm, as she was.

It was agreed perhaps unanimously amongst the high society of Central Ardhalis that Lauren Sinclair was possessive of a regal and intimidating nature that befitted her wit and tongue, both sharper than needlepoints and no less careful. She was a lovely young woman of marriageable age, but made it difficult for herself to actually reach that goal--undesired by her as it was--by being the most challenging woman most of the soft men that inhabited the upper echelons of Ardhalis society had to match for intellect.

“Look, even if it may be true that—as the two men who have just bought Netherfield _are_ rumored to be single—they are looking for a suitor, then you’ll still want to appear agreeable to them despite you not _wanting_ them, no?”

Lauren sighed tersely, picking at the fabric rather as though she were clad in the shorn skin of a seal. “Kym, surely you must know that I care not for other people’s mounting opinion of me?”

Kym frowned. “Look. _All_ I’m trying to drive home is that you’re at the ripe, potent age of twenty-three—“

“Twenty- _two,_ Kym—“

“Same difference. You’re still eligible enough, and you _know_ how your uncle’s been harping on you to just _get it done—“_

_“Yes,_ but see that’s the thing he doesn’t get!” Lauren threw up her hands, rounding the corner of the divan to place her palms on the cushions. 

The light streaming in from the side windows cast geometric pools of warmth onto the red etchings in the fabric of the divan, and pronounced shadows in the corners of her closet, where she could scrutinize the entire depth and breadth of clothing rows that she did not particularly wish to have accumulating in her closet.

“I don’t _view_ my expected nuptials as the end goal to my span of insufferable womanhood. I have _better_ things to do than to go hunting down rich, stuffy men. I’d want someone who _really_ cared, in the end.”

“Perhaps you’re right, you’re right.” Kym sighed, fingering her way through creams and ivories, bleeding into pale blues. She picked up a lacy number of soft sapphire, fringed with golden, gilded edging, holding it up so Lauren could press her lips together towards it in consideration. 

“If anything, I’m just going to help _you.”_ She said, huffing a little as Kym began to unlace the ties round the ends.

“Thank you, my friend.” Kym smiled. “I don’t particularly know if I want to meet a prospective husband, just yet, same as you. But if there is one with a visage--and income--that piques my fancy, then I may just go for it!”

Lauren laughed, throwing herself over the cushions in a decidedly unlady-like manner which would have given her etiquette tutor, Mrs. Arthingham, enough cause for stroke. She lay sprawled, limbs spread like a star as she placed a palm tinged with warmth over her eyes, feeling her lashes kiss her skin as she tried to abate the rising ache in her head.

“You _are_ rather cruel, sometimes, Kym. Would you not admire him for personality, looks even?”

“Hm.” Kym tilted her head up so the blue waves of her hair caught the light, orange hues bleeding onto a shrewd, keen face and honey-brushed eyes. She seemed to consider the notion seriously, a thoughtful pout to her lips, then grinned, showing her teeth in a fashion to match her friend’s apathy towards others views of their ladyship.

“Perhaps I might! But men—they aren’t good for much other than their money, anyhow!”

The two friends laughed, silks and satin lapping at their ankles.

Later, when Lauren, after much prodding from Kym, donned a dress beholding the curves of maroon fabric that Kym insisted brought out her eyes, twisted delicate opals in her ears and threaded a necklace bearing the same around the slope of her thin neck, she thought back to the question at hand and felt a sense of curious foreboding.

_They always say, to single and unmarried women, that it is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a significant amount of wealth must, without a fraction of doubt, be in want of a wife._

_But you see, the thing about Lauren Sinclair is that she has taken it upon herself, however unconsciously and undictated by her own free will, to find out if that could truly be constituted as truth._

_Because Lauren Sinclair knows what the truth is._

_And what it isn’t._

And that is the beginning, the start, not of anything particularly propitious, not necessarily of the dance concerning the portent forces of fate and fortune and love that will follow in the months to come.

No, unfortunately, this is the beginning of one long migraine for the unfortunate girl who can detect lies. 

And it all starts with one Kieran White.

—————

Thus so, when the shine of the evening draws to a brisk twilight and the sun filters oranges and rose pinks behind copses of trees lining the Aevasther palace walkway, Lauren finds herself in much the same position that she had anticipated since the day she and Kym had received their invitations: that is to say, wholly uncomfortable.

She tugs at the oppressive weight of the necklace and the cloistering pressure of the collar of her gown, trying perhaps altogether unsuccessfully to look the part that the rumors make her out to play; poised, calm, always dignified. But she cannot, not when all she wants to do is flounce out the door in a fit of tulle and opal and curl up on her bed with a book. 

Kym keeps her on her toes; she drags her by the arm and excitably introduces her to all who she figures she'd fancy, however slight that may be. While Lauren didn't exactly take to the task with the aplomb Kym had hoped, she appreciated her friend's efforts to acclimate her.

_”This_ is Sir Evans, of West Ardhalis. Pleased to meet you, we're entirely sure."

The man in question dithered a little as Kym dipped low in an enthusiastic curtsy, Lauren following suit reluctantly, her eyes preferring to zero in on the too-keen look in the man's eyes. She didn't like it; but then again, she didn't like most people's eyes on first glance.

“No, no, I can assure you, Ms. Ladell—the pleasure is only mine!” He smiled winningly, displaying a row of white teeth blinding enough to rival limestone. He turned that same dreadful thing to her, and she instinctively drew her shoulders higher, fingers slack by her sides instead of poised demurely in front of her stomach, like a passive lamb rather than the regal fox she knew she could unshackle.

“And _especially_ you, sweet thing.” He drew up to her, grabbing her hand ceremoniously before dipping and kissing her knuckles. Lauren resisted the urge to twist her fingers into a fist.

“Your eyes are the most pensive, beautiful things I believe I have ever seen— _why,_ they rival even the stars in the sky!”

Kim’s apologetic snort stifled behind her handkerchief did little to abate the rising, boiling irritation that swelled like molten lava in her stomach and wrists. Through gritted teeth, she managed to bring a blush that did not quite reach the appropriate level of comely rose expected or desired to her cheeks, but just enough of it to deceive. 

“Thank you— **that compliment, I am sure, will keep me up in the long hours.”**

Kym hit her arm surreptitiously as Sir Evans laughed uncomfortably, a hint of displeasure in his once unctuous voice.

“So it is true, what they say about you, Lady Sinclair. **Your wit is unmatched!”**

Lauren smiled tersely, her fingers coming up to hide the glint of the curve to her lips. “That is quite the honor, Sir. I find it difficult, sometimes, regrettably—people must learn to keep up with me.”

Unfortunately, before Kym could manage a polite excuse and drag her friend away from the man she was digging a rather alarmingly deep grave for, he decided to speak again.

“Oh well—I am sure it won’t be any match for _me._ **I’ve studied in the best schools—I’m fairly confident I have enough comeuppance to hold my own against you.”**

“Is that so?” She tilted her head, willing herself to not move too far--she didn’t need his blood on the pavement, now.

He smiled. “Well. I have to, no?” He looked away, his eyes flicking to the glitzy tile on the floor before barely meeting the corners of her own eyes head on.

“After all—it’s difficult to find a suitable woman in this crowd, nowadays. **That’s what my parents are telling me, anyways—their displeasure towards an unmarried son, as they have, is exacerbated by this...exceedingly competitive market.”**

Lauren’s eyebrows rose.

_Perhaps even men who were not quite what one would call single had need of a wife—or, in this case, a supplement to that ever-coveted position, having already been taken by another, hapless subject._

“ **Quite right,”** she drawled, her tone changing immensely, almost in a quicksilver flash. She smiled mockingly, her fingers teasing the necklace on her collar in coy defiance once more. Kym threw a keen glance at her friend, recognizing the intent in her smooth, honeyed tone.

She was aiming, in theory, for a most undesirable spot—a man’s ego. 

“Well you see, Sir Evans—perhaps women would be more agreeable towards you if you didn’t already have a wife waiting for you at home.”

Almost instantly, the man blanched, his skin turning a pallid, horrific white, as though he had been doused in paint. He spluttered, a hand coming up to twist at his collar.

“What on _earth—_ that is a most offensive accusation! I am here alone—“

“Oh, you’re _here,_ alone, no doubt, but if you call the poor woman who decided to marry your wandering eyes nothing more than a shadow of your person I am sure it would desensitize the remainders who were considering you as a prospect—it just shows how _you_ would treat another wife, Sir.”

And her batted lashes, her sly smirk, they regrettably—or perhaps not all that so—did not abate the rising fury in the man’s eyes, cheeks, a crimson splash of watercolor that bled up to his hairline.

“You— _insufferable wench—_ what gives you the right—?!”

But before he could discreetly tug on her wrist, she and Kym had already reacted, the latter twisting an arm around her friend’s shoulders and dragging her away unceremoniously, as Lauren tossed a coy shout over her shoulder, the opal dangling from her ear obstructing a full view of a downright furious Sir Evans, beetroot red and flaming at the edges.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, sir! You should bring yourself and your wife to my estate, sometime—we’d be happy to entertain you!”

“ _Lauren—“_ Kym implored, trying to don a mask of stern disappointment and failing miserably. “You _can’t”_

“If I had actually decided to allot time to talk with that man for more than I already had I would have had more choice words to say to him, I am most afraid,” Lauren explained through gritted teeth. Kym merely shook her head sympathetically, patting her friend’s arm where it was hooked around hers.

“Lauren, darling—I’m beginning to think that your ability is going to render you bereft for the rest of your life!” She looked over worriedly. 

Lauren scoffed, ducking as they passed through a sea of cloistered bodies, all decked in a shifting kaleidoscope of colors. 

“Good riddance, perhaps—I wouldn’t marry a liar.”

“I’m beginning to think you wouldn’t marry anybody at all—! Everybody lies at one point, Laur—you have to accept that at some point.”

Lauren could only shrug. “And that point, I am sure, will simply just not be today.”

“Oh, you—“

Just as she was about to begin on the crusade once again, she stopped, sensing that the entire room and it’s previously raucously chattering occupants had descended to a hush. 

One could hear the crystals on the chandeliers swirl with soft quartz and amber, and the breeze letting through the windows blew through the abbreviated silence like a waif, unseen and muted presence to an uncaring crowd. Lauren looked curiously over at Kym, who frantically pointed to the far end of the room, where a group of three people had just entered: two men and a woman.

The objects of the room’s sudden rapt and undivided attention were possessive of enough beauty and outward charm to justify its rapid excess. Even if that had not been so, Lauren was sure that their strides, their gait, the way their legs moved as though they had, mere hours ago, annexed the entire building for half the fortune of the men and women in the room combined, would have been enough to give the aforementioned an equal amount of pause.

She focused her attention on the woman, first. Long rose colored hair fell down to a cinched back, red lips curving in a viper-set pout, unkind and cold. Her eyes were sharp and keen, and while by no means as friendly as one, she drew people to her like one would admire a butterfly’s gauzy wings. She wore a long, curving dress of blanched red, the curtains of fabric draping over her legs as she walked with confidence, her eyes roving over the people looking at her like they were mere grey, bleached mice.

The men, on the other hand, were the people causing the whispers to permeate.

“ _Look at that!”_

_“Look, look.”_

_“Lord Hawkes, back from the military. And his friend, too.”_

_“Who is he? The man with the dancing eyes and crooked smile?”_

_“Yes! Him! Isn’t he brooding and dark!”_

_“Quite. Handsome too. Is he rich?”_

_“Enough to buy out the whole town, I’m sure.”_

Lauren turned up her nose, her gaze returning to the two men walking confidently, their chins held high.

The one she’d gathered to be one ‘Lord Hawkes’ had a mop of artfully messy hair atop his youthful, charming face, a punctuated almond color that brought out the mirthful blue of his eyes. He wore a long grey coat that cinched pleasantly around a thin, wiry frame, and he walked with gentle respect and confidence.

But the _other—_

The man in the center was the opposite in every way, Lauren surmised.

‘Brooding and dark’ had only been somewhat apt in describing his appearance. For while his hair was indeed the hue of darkest night and chiseled figure an intense sculpture in grainy marble, his eyes belied something entirely different. 

No, sky blues and turquoises mixed in keen and rapt attention as his gaze wandered impartially throughout the room, hiding a certain cold amusement, as though the people in the room were mere players on a chess board, silly pawns and perhaps some hapless rooks in a maze of checkerboard where he was king. A derisive smile curved on his lips, pink and thin as he smiled in a love rather cruel.

Lauren shivered. And then, shocked, wondered why she had done so.

_A king is ultimately useless, in chess. And she has played well enough to know—you cannot learn to rely on him._

_A most indicative parallel indeed._

Kym nudged her. “ _That_ must be them, Laur! The individuals I was speaking of this afternoon.”

“What—the people of considerable wealth who annexed Netherfield?”

“I can’t see any other explanation!”

Suddenly, Lauren could feel a presence behind her, and she turned just in time for her uncle’s broad hand to nearly fly into her face in an aborted attempt at greeting.

“Lauren!” He breathed. “My apologizes—“

“Quite alright, Uncle.” She bowed hastily, and Kym twirled to the newcomer with an audible gasp.

“Lord Sinclair! Listen—this is fortuitous—“ and with a decided lack of decorum towards the older man which was characteristic of Kym Ladell, she grabbed his arm and tugged him to the front, where she was afforded a better view of the enigmatic trio as they blazed their trail through the carpet of late twilight shine that had been revealed by the parting of the sea of bodies.

“—Could you tell us more about those people?” She asked eagerly. “You always know everybody, here.”

Tristan Sinclair hummed, apparently unaffected by his companion’s infectious enthusiasm. He stroked his chin, stubble shifting as he regarded the men and woman with his kind, impartial eyes. Then, he smiled, looking towards his niece in a form of question. She shrugged, nodding slightly in assent, giving permission for her uncle to exposit.

“Well—the woman you see to the right is Lady Belladonna Davenport. I hear she is the cousin of Lord William Hawkes—the man to the far left. He was gone for nearly half a decade on a military campaign—although I see he is back, which an entourage in tow, this time!” 

Tristan turned to Lauren. “You’d remember him briefly--I used to mentor him, back when he was a boy. You recollect?”

Lauren nodded vaguely, her eyes still on the dark-haired man, the way his eyes closed, as though he were thoroughly tired of even existing in the space he occupied, the way his raven hair, done up in a silky pale blue ribbon, fell artfully against his face, framing it like a picture portrait. When Tristan nudged her lightly, she snapped back, looking towards the man now designated as William Hawkes.

“I believe I do.” She looked up at her uncle. His brows furrowed, and he looked rather curious.

“I wonder how his mother is doing…”

“He’s handsome,” Kym inputted, her voice light and conversational. But there was something behind it that caused amusement to flare up in Lauren. She smiled knowingly over at Kym, who only caught her gaze with a belligerent eye, waving a hand in exasperation.

“And the center man?” Lauren found herself asking. Tristan shot her a keen look, and she scoffed, waving a gloved hand in dismissal. He laughed.

“ _That—_ would be a Lord Kieran White.”

“Oh?” Lauren stared. The name did nothing to her—merely washed over in a wave of cool acceptance. “The name fits.”

“Does it, really? Don’t see anything White about him.” Kym pondered, her voice low and prying.

“Something...about it.” She mused. “It is a haughty name, I suppose that is it.”

“A haughty name!” Tristan boomed, his laughter beholding of an infectious quality that often swayed even the most tenacious of competitors to his side. “I wouldn’t wonder if your assessment was correct!”

He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “They do say he is rather prickly. Picky with his company. He’s been Lord Hawkes’ friend for decades. And—“

He indicated the vice grip that Belladonna had on his arm—something Lauren could not discern if he was enjoying as much as she clearly was. 

“—rumors say he is to be married to Lord Hawkes’ cousin.”

Lauren nodded. “I don’t see much reason to speak to him, then.”

Tristan raised an eyebrow at his niece. “You know I disapprove of that way of thinking you’ve adopted, Ren. You have to meet people regardless of their ulterior motives—or yours.”

Lauren hummed. She averted her gaze from her uncle’s, to the floor, if only to stop her eyes from drifting northward, towards cold blue steel and the harsh set of an imperiously sharp jaw.

For there _was_ one reason she could salvage to speak to the enigmatic Mr. White. And that was one she wasn’t quite ready to grapple with yet.

Suddenly she found herself pushed to the front of the throng, her uncle behind her and Kym’s head cocked curiously beside her. She could feel the air shift as the morsels of gossip ceased their rounds, and all that was left was a respectful air of silence for the people who had delighted the attendees of the Aevasther Ball enough to cause the elevated quiet, uncharacteristic of such a high profile event.

They passed her without much fanfare, and she was about to let out a breath and dip into a mechanical curtsy, until she stopped.

Lord White had glanced back, and his eyes met hers.

And he did something that she hadn’t previously thought him capable of doing: he hesitated slightly.

They looked at each other. From a closer distance his eyes held more than simple sky blue or teal. No, they were caged shards of the sharpes glass, azure and intensity twined together to create the perfect painting of a man scorned. 

What was beyond that that caused her to hesitate, too?

Lauren Sinclair did not make it a habit to hesitate, normally.

But she did this once.

Why, she did not yet know.

And then the spell broke, shattered like a wine glass on carpet, muffled and understated but leaving a ruthless stain on her composure. She balked, swaying her skirts as she averted her gaze and set it resolutely on her shoes, and he turned his head quickly away, a delicate smirk playing on his lips as he looked in near bewilderment to the hallway forward.

“Well.” She could hear Kym say, through the haze of anxious thrill.

“That was anticlimactic.”

—————

Kieran White himself was finding one thing very clear: he hated this.

It was unclear to him if this was simply his general disdain for people resurfacing after having been away from the bustle and grandiose snobbery of central Ardhalis for so long, or the specific people he was talking to, but he could lay it to rest in his mind that whatever it may be, he wasn’t liking it.

Currently one Lady Greyson was talking Will’s ear off somewhere behind a veneer of detached interest that he’d placed himself in. Instead of tuning into a conversation that did not directly concern him, he elected to fiddle with the collar of his undershirt, wanting desperately to unbutton it and allow his skin to meet the stuffy air of the ballroom, like he would do if he were— _anywhere_ else.

“I think people have such a low opinion of you because you never manage to hide just how much you loathe talking to them, _darling,”_ Bella hisses in his ear, her sybillant voice only heightening his unease. He narrowly avoided the urge to shrug her off his arm and leave in a flurry of clicking boots and coat fabric, instead choosing to scoff and level his tentative betrothed with a sardonic smirk.

“If it makes them feel any better about the matter, I do that with everyone, indiscriminately.”

“Oh I know _that.”_ She shook her head. “I know you’re just dying to get back to Netherfield and curl up with your little drawings—but _please.”_ She leaned forward, and he could practically taste the heaps of vanilla perfume on her wrists, “For our sakes, just play along.”

“Right.” He smiled tersely, a scathing look hid behind a roll of his jaw, a sweep of his bangs back with a careless palm. “You know I am a good sport.”

He turned back to where Will had been placating Lady Greyson about something to do with an embarrassing gaff that had occurred too long ago at a family dinner for it to be of any importance anymore. He watched the lady gesticulate, her hands waving, and the growing apprehension on his friend’s face. He itched for a pencil, to sketch the harried lines of the two figures, the way their mouths curved almost in avian displeasure, grey wrinkles of unease ruined usual gold and orange.

Suddenly, Will turned, a small twist of his head, barely a jerk in comparison to Lady Greyson’s wide and sweeping movements, and caught the eye of a bespectacled man in his early fifties off in the distance, stubble dotting his chin and a pleasant way of carrying himself.

Immediately his eyes lit up in recognition, and he raised a hand to hail the man over, leaving Lady Greyson to flounder by the sidelines, disappearing with a scorned look into the hallway beyond. 

“Lord Sinclair! Or should I call you Chief, now?” Will laughed as the man approached them. He who had thus named ‘Lord Sinclair,’ threw his head back, making to bow respectfully before Will.

“Between us, my boy, you can call me just Tristan, if it suits you!” He rose, clapping Will on the arm in jovial greeting.

“How are you? I haven’t seen you in—how long now? Five years?”

Will laughed, the ocean-blue of his eyes shining, his nose pinked slightly with a lingering chill. “Yes! The last time I saw you you were just getting your prescription for those spectacles of yours.”

“Oh—don’t remind me, boy.” He leaned down. “It makes me feel old.”

Then, he paused, looking down. “How is your mother?”

Instantly Will’s face turned to acrid stone. He hid his floundering behind a masked smile, but Kieran always knew when his friend was hiding. 

“Ah--she has passed.”

“Oh!” Tristan’s face turned white. “I am _so--”_

“It’s quite alright,” Will hurried to stop him. “It happened around two years back--and I’ve had enough time to grieve.”

He waved a hand. “The only good part that came out of it--it led me back here!”

Tristan nodded. “You’ve bought back the estate, haven’t you?”

Will smiled a little. “Yes. It’s big, and empty--without…”

He paused, sorrow creeping into his voice. Then, he began again, this time with new fervor.

“But rest assured, we are making it suitable!”

His companion laughed. “I have no doubt!”

Then, sensing that his two friends were caught in a rather awkward position, Will laughed, turning to introduce the new acquaintance. 

“Kieran—Bella. This is an old friend of mine—and a most generous mentor.”

“Ah—“ Kieran stepped forward. “You must be Chief Sinclair. Yes—I have heard of you.”

“I’m afraid I can’t say I can return the favor, lad.” Tristan said apologetically, shaking his hand. It was warm, comforting, open. 

“You are Lord White—I have heard rumors, yes, about your status and wealth. But not much more than that, I’m afraid.” He stopped. “Your business is impressive, I must admit. And you are so young!”

Kieran smiled a little, nudging Will with a shoulder. “My dear friend here makes no more than vague mentions of his most bosom companions, I see!”

“Kieran—that’s not it, and you know—!”

“Oh yes, you claim because I am—how did you put it last Christmas? ‘Secretive and rather abrasive—‘“

“I said that to win a bet!”

_“A most offensive bet--”_

_“Which I ended up winning three-thousand pence, for!”_

“Well—!” Tristan chuckled, a hand covering his mouth. “I can definitely see that you are close.”

Just then, two women appeared from behind him, almost like creeping ghosts, their feet silent and unpronounced. One was of medium height, lanky with an enthusiastic note to her movements, short blue hair twisted into a slight updo and long lashes covering tawny eyes.

The other—

He stopped short as he once again found himself staring into the eyes of the one woman who’d managed to strike a different chord than the rest. 

He’d taken into account, when he first saw her, how she moved in a different direction than the other people, how her eyes guided a different map against her perception of the world. They were pensive things—cold, unyielding despite their warm honey color. And they regarded him with polite and schooled indifference—although there was something in them that offset his balance a little. 

Something that—yes. Made him a tad bit uneasy.

“Ah—but I am rude. Lord Hawkes—Lord White. Have you met my niece and her friend yet?” He gestured to the both of them.

“Your niece, yes!” Will laughed, bowing a little to the red-haired woman. She smiled.

“I do remember you, I think--” she pointed--”you used to be accosted by the chickens that my mother kept in the back of our house--without fail, every day!”

“Oh, _please.”_ He grimaced. “That’s what you remember?”

The woman laughed, and Kieran found that it was a laugh that managed to not displease him. It was pitched and lovely, like bells and chimes in the summer wind. He grimaced as he thought this, schooling his face back to impassivity.

Then, Will turned to the other.

“I’m afraid I’ve not had the pleasure—“ Will stopped, turned to bow—

“Kym Ladell!” The aforementioned dipped low in a brief and effusive curtsy before rising and extending her own hand. Will looked taken aback at her forwardness, but politely took her palm in his, a little smile on his face. She turned to Kieran, who offered her an acknowledging nod. She seemed a little put out by this, but otherwise did not attempt anything further.

For the better, he thought. He didn’t know if he could exactly handle one of her energy, at the moment.

Then, rounding on him steadily, with a practiced and careful solemnity, the other woman spoke, her voice a clarion call in the din.

“Lauren Sinclair.” She bent, the maroon of her skirts bleeding, pooling on the floor as she lowered her head before rising swiftly. She paused when she felt Kieran’s eyes on her, and tilted her chin in defiance, as if to broadcast the already evident fact that she was not the type of person to keep her neck low for anybody—but particularly not for him, if he was expecting as such.

Perhaps he couldn’t help it if his smile for her was a little broader.

“I do believe I’ve heard some tales about you from you, Miss.” Kieran said, his voice flat--almost mocking. She tilted her head, light amusement dancing in her eyes--along with a curious suspicion.

“Oh? Only good things, I do hope.”

“Oh, surely. He’s told me you have a sharp intellect.”

“Ah.” She nodded, still not smiling. Kieran found that rather odd. Should one not smile when they are complimented?

“I can only hope that is apparent enough without me having to forcibly demonstrate.”

“ _Well, we can see it in your tongue.”_ He found himself muttering.

Fool.

Immediately she turned to him, an incredulous look of exasperation structured like fortification in her lips, eyes, face. She clicked her teeth and regarded him with a steady challenge.

“Do you believe my tongue is insufficient in conversing with yourself, Mr. White?”

He smiled sardonically, bowing and bringing an unconscious palm up to the nape of his collar once more. “Hardly—I only mean that perhaps it runs at a different pace than your mind does.”

She sneered suddenly, all vixen-like fury. “I am afraid I cannot say the same for you—yours can hardly run _any_ sort of pace with something it lacks, after all—.”

Sensing immediate danger in the tone of the conversation, Kym gasped suddenly, bending low and clasping Will’s arm tightly.

“You wouldn’t be so unkind as to refuse me a dance, Lord Hawkes?”

He looked rather hesitant at first, before glancing at Tristan. He nodded affectionately, looking at a Kym curiously before allowing his old student his indulgence. The both of them swept away, leaving only Bella and Lauren left with him.

He didn’t exactly see how this was any better.

Tristan excused himself, a hand on his niece’s shoulder to allow himself to dip down and whisper something unknown in her ear. Then, he straightened, running a finger over his cuffs before offering them all a candid, genuine smile.

“Lovely meeting the lot of you, I’m sure.”

And with that he was gone, and then Kieran was truly left with the sharks.

“You aren’t going to dance, I know, darling.” Bella intoned blithely, releasing her hold on his arm in favor of inspecting her appearance in a tiny hand mirror, produced from a largely unknown spot in her mass of gossamer. Tossing a glance over her shoulder at Lauren, she flounced off.

“I’m going to freshen up—I’ll meet you when the night is younger, Kieran.” 

After throwing the bit, she was gone, and Kieran could breathe air that wasn’t filled with vanilla again.

But his solace was short lived, for the more calming lilt of honey caught him, and he turned to find Lauren still staring at him, her gaze unyielding and scrutinous.

He coughed. “If you are aiming to ask me to dance, I feel my fiancée has just clarified my stance on the matter.”

“Yes.” She acquiesced. “I _was_ present.”

He huffed a little, nodding. “So then—?”

“You don’t dance, Mr. White?” She cocked her head, her voice a mockery of curiosity. He hummed noncommittally.

“Not if I can help it.”

She nodded, her face souring, and then the conversation was dead. He was a skilled murderer, a very talented criminal; never could amicable speech be kept alive under his ministrations.

And there it was; she too, left him, and he was alone, reluctantly comfortable in the lonely depths of his own, growing pain.

—————

Lauren, after leaving the man who she had assessed to be an insufferable bother on top of a class-act buzzkill, grabbed a flute of wine from the table before making her way over to find Kym.

Indeed once she located her, she found her friend delightfully flushed with exertion, leant against a far wall. When she managed to reach her, she accosted her, drawing her underneath a table.

Lauren collapsed onto a burlap sack holding the table up, her back digging into the grainy material. “Kym! What—“

“Listen—am I famished after that!” She held up her hand, and it was then that Lauren noticed the slices of watermelon clutched in her fingers like a deck of cards. She groaned.

“Kym, not again—this happened last time and you have to remember what happened then—“

“Watermelon is perfect for this—but I can’t find it in myself to eat it outside for fear of being called unladylike.” She ignored Lauren’s assertions, watermelon juice dribbling down her fingers as she took an enthusiastic bite.

“Couldn’t see why.” Lauren deadpanned. Nonetheless, she took a sip of her wine, looking out from the slats that the table legs created. She could see various unknown faces’ lower extremities, and found a small joy in examining the cut of people’s shoes, the tuck of their breeches into boots, the hemlines of women’s wide skirts.

“So! Let’s recuperate, dear friend.” Kym said, swallowing a mouthful of tart fruit. 

“Right.” Lauren smiled beneath the lip of the wine glass. “How was dancing with one of the most eligible bachelors in the room?”

Kym laughed. “I thought he was artfully pleasant! He didn’t seem to be _too_ intimidated by me—“

_“That’s_ a first—“

“Be quiet, Laur! Like you can talk—and anyway, it seemed you scared that other handsome man away with your quips.”

Lauren scoffed. “Are you talking about that man— _Lord White?”_

She pronounced his name as though she were describing a fish carcass. Kym snorted.

“So—it has been decided, then. He has forfeited the fickle approval of Lauren Sinclair.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so presumptuous as to say that.”

“What did he do—oh!” She leaned in. “ _What did he lie about, then?”_

Lauren opened her mouth, then closed it. 

No—he hadn’t exactly tried to deceive her, that was true. But it wasn’t as though he had given her much in that department, anyhow.

But how could she begin to explain how he somehow managed to completely uproot her composure? How she’d managed to blurt out damn-near the rudest lance she’d ever thrown, if only to see him in a similar state of undone composure? If only to knock that belligerent smile off his face?

“No. But I just didn’t appreciate the way he spoke to me, is all.” She cleared her throat.

“Oh, like you were any better! Seriously I think sometimes you’ll _actually_ kill someone before you allow them into your good graces.”

“I just know people, Kym.” She sighed. “Not many of them are willing to be honest.”

Kym sighed, patting her friend’s shoulder. “Lauren—I know how you must feel...after—“

_“Just—“_ she waved a hand, sloshing wine in her glass. “Forget about it.”

“What about Williame, at least. Does he pique your fancy?”

A wide smirk spread itself thin on Lauren’s face. _“Williame—?”_

To her surprise, a slight blush rose to Kym’s cheeks. She coughed into a fist, hiding the words threatening to spill behind another mouthful of watermelon. Before she could take a third bite and effectively end the tirade of questioning she was anticipating, Lauren caught her arm, shaking her head.

“I find him amicable, in the very least—but it seems you find it more so—so I will leave him up to you.”

“Oh—“

“Trust me.” She winked. “You’ll be taking the Hawkes name in no time, you’ll see—“

“Lauren!” She kicked her with a foot, and Lauren laughed as she sat back and huffed petulantly. 

“Fine, fine—it’s a challenge, then!” She sprung up. “I’ll see how fast I can get at him!”

“That is _not-“_

But before she could finish, she could discern the voice of the man who currently occupied their conversation. It was a distinct voice—it flowed calmly and effusively in the mix of higher pitches. Instantly the two women quieted, shooting each other excited glances as their words began to take form in clarity.

“...I do hope you manage to enjoy yourself, somewhat.”

“I’m sure that this event being a ball instantly killed any enthusiasm or waning feeling I could have had for it.”

Lauren realized with a start that she could already perfectly recognize the answering tone that invaded her senses. It was deep, with a timbre like a harmonious cello, and she instantly bristled as she recalled their earlier conversation, how even when he was talking to a friend his voice was still curiously distant.

“Come _on,_ Kieran. I think you should at least make the effort to enjoy yourself before my cousin usurps the grandeur of parties such as this for you—you _know_ how she can be.”

“You would really speak so ill of your cousin?” He laughed, and Lauren stifled a gasp behind her palm, the skin of her glove digging into her own. It was a rather warm laugh, sunlight and good humor behind it. It was the first time she’d heard it like that.

“You would, I know.”

“Well—what of you? You danced with a rather agreeable woman tonight, yourself.”

“Oh—Kym.” He paused, a strange note creeping into his voice. “Yes—she was nice. I found something odd—she was a bit different.”

“How so?”

“Well—she didn’t try too hard.” 

Their voices got closer, and Kym clapped a hand over her mouth to quell a rising giggle.

“With me—she was herself. I appreciated that.” His voice was pensive. “Many of the women I met abroad—well, they didn’t dare make half the jokes she did!”

“That so?” Kieran sounded mirthful. “Well. I’m sure the wedding bells are not too far off on the horizon.”

“Well—do stop. **I don’t think I have any lingering attachment as of yet.”**

Before Kym could look too crestfallen, Lauren took her warmly by the arm, shaking her head. 

“It appears your good man _does_ lie a little.”

And it was worth it, the ability which she felt so strongly was her vice, if only to see the way the light in Kym’s face was restored to its former sunshine glory.

“What of you? That woman—Tristan’s niece. I thought she was amusing—a clever thing.”

“Ah. _Sinclair?“_ A pause. “Yes—she is clever. A pity she skipped out on the amity.”

Their legs passed directly next to the table.

“Barely tolerable a presence. I’m afraid I didn’t have much in terms to say to her, even if she is a beautiful company to keep.”

Their backs retreated into the crowd again, leaving the two women secreted away in their clandestine hiding spot to look at each other blankly.

Lauren registered very, very brief hurt, before blinding anger took over. She grit her teeth, looking down at her fingers.

“Hey.” Kym took her hands, lacing their digits together in solidarity.

“Forget him. He may be handsome—but if there were more to it than you’d actually _regret_ not wanting to speak to him.”

Lauren smiled at her friend’s efforts. “Thank you, Kym.”

So then, this did settle it, marked it in red for all to see.

Lauren Sinclair would not entertain Kieran White any further.

—————

As the night drew to a steady and monotonous close, the moon beginning to rise to its place in the sea of stars above, the new acquaintances converged on the steps of the palace, Tristan and Will chatting amicably about the days before his departure. The rest of the party—Kym, Lauren, Bella and Kieran—remained tactfully silent.

“You should _truly_ come by Netherfield sometime, Chief Sinclair,” Will prompted, turning to his mentor with wide eyes. “It’s not exactly up to form quite yet, but me and my friends can mange to fix it up in time—“

“Oh, of that I have no doubt!”

Bella cut in, her voice smooth, like cream. “We do hope to get to know you better, _all_ of you.”

And for some odd reason, she looked towards Lauren, her eyes roving over her critically. Lauren resolved that she would not be cowed by such a person, and tilted her head in a facade of polite acknowledgement.

“Any friends of Will are friends of ours.”

“Indeed.”

Turning the corner, Kym indicated the direction she was to take. 

“My house is that way—I’ll find some way to hail a cab—“

“ _Nonsense!”_ Will turned on his heel, incredulous. “Me and Bella are off in a similar direction, I’ll take you—“

“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly—“

“Come, Ladell.” He smiled, already off. “It’d only be proper, after all!”

“And when are you the bastion of propriety, Williame? Because if I recall, you told me, at the academy—“

“Let’s just go!”

And the three left, but not before Bella tugged on Kieran’s color lightly, her eyes darting to Lauren with unmasked suspicion, whispering something intangible in his ear before swaying down to where her cousin and his new companion were walking.

Tristan left to hail their own carriage, leaving Lauren to contemplate exactly _why_ she’d allowed herself to remain alone with the one man she could not possibly hope to tolerate without some form of outburst.

He looked down at her curiously. “Surely, you are not going home alone--?”

“No, my Uncle is hailing us our carriage.” She replied tersely. “I do not see how that is any of your business.”

“Well, if you had noticed the decorum of my friend just now--” he gestured exaggeratedly to where Will had disappeared behind the hedges--”then you would know that I could not, in good conscience, leave a woman to herself at this time of night.”

_“How positively gallant you are, Sir!”_ She twirled, hands on her hips a decided fire in her eyes. “I wouldn’t think you’d extend that courtesy to me!”

“Why--“ he gasped, his smirk irritatingly perfect. “Do you think me needlessly cruel?”

“For someone who snubbed all that asked to dance tonight, I would think, that if not downright cruelty, then you at least have the capacity to be scathing, Mr. White.” 

He grimaced, clicking his teeth. She watched him brush at his shoulders in what could have been described as nervous contempt, watched the lines of his jaw twist as he worked up a response to the dig. When he crossed his arms, closing off his stance, her eyes drifted to the way the drapes of his undershirt folded against the blue blazer he wore. 

She found herself thinking that his ensemble would look decidedly less like he’d been caged in fabric if the collar’s buttons were popped.

And then stopped that train of thought abruptly, like fingers snuffing out a match.

“I believe I told you, Ms. Sinclair. I do not dance-- **I am not particularly fond of it, in any case.”**

She stopped dead. Tilted her head. He turned to look at her, and then they were staring, both afraid to break the fragility of the silence, the slight peace it had created despite the mounting tension in the night air.

“I see.”

He turned to her, no doubt at the unnameable note that had crept into her voice unbidden. “What--?”

“Nothing, Sir.” She paused, turning back to where her Uncle’s voice could be heard, just booming over the drive.

“I simply do not find dancing very constructive, is all,” he protested, sensing the need to defend himself a little. His voice was still irritatingly low, attempted charm seeping in through the cracks like spilled crystal.

“Oh truly?” She turned to him. “And what would you say of talk, then? Is it also meaningless?”

He smiled, a devilish smirk offsetting the unease in his eyes. “As evidenced by the fact that I am carrying on a conversation with you--someone who clearly has been turned the wrong way about me, I would tell you that it is rare that I pursue anything that is meaningless.”

“Oh! How funny.” And she turned on her heel, skirt billowing around her ankles as she walked in the direction of salvation.

When she turned back, her eyes danced with light, a thing of the stars’ pity, that he certainly would not do with her.

“I find it commendable that you find our conversation meaningful but dancing trite, seeing as your partner on both occasions would be barely tolerable to his lordship.”

She could see the way he started, the way his carefully constructed composure dropped for a second, and she did not wait for the gap to close, for him to regain his guard. Before a monosyllable could even escape his lips, she was walking away, smiling to herself as she ruminated on the newly-obtained knowledge that single men could be thrown off-kilter by a mere uncovering of past grievances.

Oh, did it take so little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *jazz hands*
> 
> Just a little thing I’ll be writing alongside TLoF before I get to—another longfic 👀
> 
> Haven’t decided exactly how long it’ll be (you know me I don’t plan a damn thing), but 6-8 chapters sounds sufficient. This will be a VERY loose retelling, with some new twists and turns 👀👀I’m basing this on the 2005 movie and—sparknotes. Because lazy ;)


	2. Netherfield Mansion, and Kieran White’s Honed Insufferability

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lauren Sinclair wakes in the dawn of a bright, humid summer morning, amongst sheets piled high with sunlight and the faint impressions of dew congealing on the window, to find on her bedside table a sliced peach, a glass of water, and a letter stating the rather alarming fact that Kym had not returned home the previous night. 

**Summer XX27**

Lauren Sinclair wakes in the dawn of a bright, humid summer morning, amongst sheets piled high with sunlight and the faint impressions of dew congealing on the window, to find on her bedside table a sliced peach, a glass of water, and a letter stating the rather alarming fact that Kym had not returned home the previous night. 

As she stumbles downstairs in nothing but her underskirt and a very loosely laced corset, she scans the taunting script on the letter, sent from none other than Netherfield mansion only two days ago, searching for an indication that her friend was, in fact, whole and well. 

She gets that reassurance, thankfully. It appears that while visiting Lord Hawkes for a weekend, she’d gotten it into her head to walk in the torrential high-summer downpour that has stormed Ardhalis the past few days, rendering her ill and coughing up enough to rival that storm. 

Typical of Kym Ladell; she should have known her friend’s tendencies better. 

Then she wouldn’t have had to tighten her corset until it contained nothing more than a ghostly spectre of a figure, donned a shoddy grey riding gown and a scarlet knit shawl, and bid her uncle a hasty and ramshackle goodbye before running out into the streets, her skirts held in a fist.

There is, possibly, another reason for her apprehension, but it is surely nothing to do with the fact that despite not having seen the party of three that had managed to displace the calm stones she’d built up for fortification in her life since last spring, anxiety and tension still knots in her stomach like a particularly stubborn ball of wool at the thought of having to imitate pleasantries with them again. 

She trudges on alongside the paved road, and thus, she can feel her boots begin to sink ever-deeper as the walk continues. She’d always enjoyed walking; it helps clear the threads of her mind, helps wipe dust and soot off the cogs of her mental processes. And yet even the most passionate of hikers must find their fond pleasure sullied by the strict vices of the force known as nature’s grime.

“Kym—“ she grits out, as her hemline is frosted over with mud for not the third time, but the fourth—“you’re going to owe me _so_ much.”

Netherfield Mansion, located in the far crevices of the richest neighborhood in Central Ardhalis, stood separate from the cluster of houses, most of them cashew colored and built like raging castles, in one thing alone: the garden.

Yes, Netherfield boasted a sprawling garden, spanning a number of acres that was almost irritating to think about, filled to the apex of every crevice with dense and lovingly curated foliage: swathes of lush bushes, tulips of an assortment of colors, carnations and wild daisies, and curiously, a whole patch dedicated to stalks of hyacinths. 

She'd have probably taken more time, if she wasn't disposed, to admire the way the petals arranged themselves in perfect towers of blue and red and purple. But as was such, she had to skirt by them with undue and undeserved haste, in favor of lifting the ostentatious door knocker and hoping that its steady thumps against the mahogany would present a clue as to her friend's health and safety.

A rather harried looking, but still decidedly clean maid opened the door, and Lauren wavered a little under the intense scrutiny of her milky, gooseberry eyes.

"Good morning--or, I suppose it's afternoon, now." Lauren began glancing up at the sky and noting the sun’s presence above her. She kept her voice light, conversational, hiding the true extent of her exertion and mild worry.

"If you're selling something, Miss, we're not interested," the maid said with a tone of voice indicating nothing to the contrary, her eyes flicking down with dispassionate sympathy to Lauren's shoddy choice of dress, the rust red and dull umber of dried mud creeping up her hemline like patchwork.

Lauren stared for a moment, duly affronted, then shook her head. "No--no. I'm not here for that--"

She drew herself up, tucking the crimson shawl she wore closer around her shoulders, snug enough to stave off a latent chill that sung through the garden.

"I am Lady Sinclair." She dipped into a haphazard curtsey. "I received a letter early this morning regarding the whereabouts of a friend of mine--a Kym Ladell. I was told she had been taken ill."

The maid started slightly, the lines of her pudgy face curving in shock and embarrassment.

_"You're_ Lady Sinclair--oh, _many_ apologies--I see now, Miss." She pointed up to her own features.

"Your eyes--they're pensive, indeed--so I've heard about you--!"

Lauren waved an impatient hand. "Yes, yes, quite. Kym--?"

The maid bowed frantically, swinging the side doors open, the wood creaking with deafening age, the hinges worn with its weight. Lauren tried in vain to scuff the mud on her shoes on the shag rug in the entrance, the last thing she wanted being to track it upon the clearly meticulously varnished flooring of the Netherfield corridors.

She took up her hem in a hesitant hand, stepping over the threshold and following the maid deeper in the cavernous depths of the vast estate. She could hear her own breath sound in the halls, the sounds of her shoes and her steps scraping off of the walls lined with gold brocade and various statues of varying degree and build. She scoffed at a bust of Napoleon, clearly worth more than a small fraction of the house’s value, looking into its eyes and feeling only foreboding.

The maid dipped her head at every passerby, the butlers carrying small used trays of teacups and laden with plates of half-eaten raspberry scones, the gardening staff entering in from a nebulous back door, carrying shovels caked with mud of their own. All who passed, impartially, threw her a searching glance that had her bristling, spine straight as their eyes roved critically over her grey skirts, the mud, the look in her eyes that befitted a belligerent spaniel rather than a delicate lady.

She did not belong here.

That fact came as a realization not too jarring or disbelieving, but rather more bluntly hurtful, more acknowledging. It resounded like a dull pang in her chest, like a violin string plucked in a discordant tune of sorrow and discomfort, caused her to grimace slightly with the embarrassing weight of the insecurity walking in a place like this had afforded her. 

The maid gestured to a set of double doors further down the hallway. “The young masters and mistress should be just in there--”

_“Thank you,_ ever so much--” 

She didn’t wait for the poor maid to finish her flustered speech, electing instead to try and further along the interaction so she could presently tow her friend home, of who was none the wiser to the scathing feeling that the house was tearing her apart with its scrutiny, by pushing open the door with resounding resolve.

“--He’s back from overseas, and we’re going to have to entertain him--I’ve accepted that fact--”

And with that door swinging on its hinges, she found herself face to face, once again, with a man she had thought prudent to forget about.

She reels back from where she’s run into him, his hand still poised for the doorknob she’d laid her claim to first, and they stare at each other in collective disbelief, the room that was once previously occupied by the echoes of his timberous voice now hushed with awed silence.

He stares. She does too, and it reminds her of the ball that spring, a lifetime of flowers and rain ago, all orange lilies dying on their buds and golden trees lines with waning leaves, as she looks at Kieran White with new eyes, the eyes of someone only a few months separated from the version of her that decided with a fervor that she would not work to please him.

“Lady Sinclair.” He breathes, his voice slighting, an abashed and awed tone melting into the once arrogant and cocksure syrup to his deep baritone. 

He steps backward swiftly, giving her ample space and giving him the opportunity to click his heels together in a deep and--what one could have managed to call--a respectful bow. He was dressed in a blue blazer, white undershirt, and swathes of sunlight, the picture completing itself with his quintessential bun, looped around a ribbon at the very nape of his neck. He looked an identical picture to his comport at the Aevasther Ball, and Lauren could decidedly say that between and betwixt the fluttering of the treacherous butterflies in her stomach, the mountainous peaks of anxiety still climbing ever-further, one feeling cemented itself:

Irritation.

_“Lord White.”_ She curtseyed, making sure to not draw attention to her muddied hemline, suddenly, and with a startling force, embarrassed that she was so out of sorts. And for seemingly not unfounded reasons, for when she looked beyond the man she found another figure sitting beyond, the rosy curls of Belladonna Davenport tauntingly glaring in the harsh sunlight as the aforementioned woman regarded her with shock and carelessly masked distaste.

_“My!_ Lady Sinclair--” she said, her voice still sybillant, like the venomous tinges of a viper’s tongue--”It’s been quite a while--”

“Yes, indeed, it is a--shock--to see you here.” Kieran said, his voice still abstracted, distant, though an arrogant smirk had begun to form on his lips at her flustered state. 

He didn’t quite look at her like she was an intruder; but it was something similar in his cold azure gaze, something that still managed to give her an ample amount of pause, enough for her breath to hitch as she took in the offensively _composed_ way he stood before her, like he owned all in the room and thus, her, as well.

Which--she reasoned--was half true. He _did_ own the estate.

But he would never have the latter.

“Did you _walk_ here, Miss Sinclair?” Bella asked, her voice a perfect mixture of incredulity and disgust. Her eyes, folded with wings of liner and a keen, harpy-like glint that set Lauren’s hackles shouting, trained itself on the mud at her hemline.

Lauren looked between the two of them, Lord White with interest and Lady Davenport with attempted politeness.

Then, she smiled, a pretty, winning point of her lips, still flushed with heat and the pink sear of the summer light. 

“Yes! I did.” She said, an eager lilt to her voice that set Bella on edge, visibly.

Silence. Then, Bella hummed thoughtfully, her glance darting towards Kieran briefly. Instead of a similar haughty delight at her lack of decorum, however, she only found him looking at her in something silent and understated, a curious emotion that looked out of place on his face.

“I’m sorry to bother the both of you on what was evidently supposed to be a quiet afternoon--” she indicated the scraps of their endeavors on the table in front of her, little crumbs of biscuits dotting the edges like incessant sparrows, plates and cups scattered about in organized disarray, a mosaic of events past.

“--But I must see my friend. Kym--I was told she was here--?”

“She’s upstairs.” Kieran said, his voice calm. He jerked his head in a vague direction, his eyes still placid and hiding seemingly nothing. “William is with her now. For what purpose, I am unsure.”

Lauren raised an eyebrow, alarmed. “Is she--?!”

“She is well.” He hurried to assure. But there was a smirk playing on his lips that she did not like. 

“I would recommend you to go see.” He bowed.

“Are you not aware of her well being yourself?” She inquired tersely, her patience already eroding steadily, what little of it she still possessed. 

“He surely has better things to do than worry about everyone that passes through this _house,_ Lady Sinclair.” Belladonne intoned, leaning back in her chair, a lacy fan in her fingertips, the zephyr of wind from her ministrations dancing over her skin and breezing the thin red fabric of her dress back around her collarbones. 

“Right, darling?” She looked pointedly at him. “You still have those letters you were saying you wished to send off with the post--”

_“Correct.”_ He sighed, tilting his head. “I’m afraid I must **go and do exactly that,** Lady Sinclair. I shall leave you.” 

He bowed, his legs never tilting, her eyes never leaving hers. Then, with a light wave that did not match the crushing demeanor he ported, he drifted past her and out the door from whence she came, disappearing behind the long walls of the corridor, like he was never there to begin with. She could not hear his breath, his heartbeat, his steps, resound so clearly as she could hear hers when she walked in his place.

Lauren looked back at Belladonna, ruminating in tense and punctuated silence. Then, with a light curtsey, trying to draw her attention away, once again, from her appearance, she bid her own terse farewell to the woman. Bella looked on in scorn as she swiveled on a heel, making off in the direction Kieran had indicated.

She located the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time until she reached the very top of the landing, a dark corridor opening up to a series of bedrooms lined with ostentatious decor and furnishings. One of them, namely, the door ajar, held the one person in the house she could find herself being amiable towards, sitting in a chair beside the bed that contained her sick friend.

Kym lurched upwards from her resting position on the goosefeather sheets once she noticed her friend lingering in the hallway, her face eager in the presence of a familiar face. She looked flushed with fever, her face mixed shades of pink and rouge, but her smile, as always was infectious, as evidenced by the way Lord Hawkes’ own lips curved when he tilted his head to follow hers’ direction.

“Lauren!” Kym shouted, and she could hear the rasp in her normally clear and clarion voice. 

She indicated the man beside her with a wave of her fingers. “Can you tell our darling Lord Hawkes here that a watermelon is _perfectly_ sufficient for curing a cold--because he wouldn’t get me some for that _exact_ reason and I--”

“Might I remind you, Ladell, that watermelon is the _exact_ opposite of something you should intake--”

_“Insouciance!_ Lauren--tell him--”

Lauren threw back her head and laughed, duly relieved to see that her friend’s spirit was not, in fact, diminished by any sort of sickness that might have taken hold of her. She paused and looked over at Lord Hawkes, who merely bowed his head respectfully, a sheepish, wondering smile on his face.

“I was _worried,_ Kym--but I see you’re in sufficient hands, enough!” She bowed to Lord Hawkes as he waved a hand, carding his fingers through sandy blonde streaks of hair that looked like they hadn’t been anything but mussed in days. The bags under his eyes were pronounced, bleeding violet in the yellows the room was caked in.

“She insisted on walking here--right when that downpour hit about two days ago.” He sighed. “I see that habit runs the same with you.”

He looked down at her hem, and she balked a little, waving her hands, wanting to delay the reprimands. “When I received your letter, Lord Hawkes, I rushed over here with only the utmost haste, please forgive my--”

“It’s quite alright, Lady Sinclair,” he said, and the way it was so simple for him to proclaim, the way he did not lie when he said it, it made her feel more at ease that this was the man Kym had decided to take into her extremely guarded affections. He was honest, and unmarred by complexity, that it was almost easy to forget the way his keen eyes roved impartially over a room, with quiet compassion.

Sure. Lauren Sinclair did not take to many people. But perhaps she could make a slight concession, here.

Kym, at present, made to sit up, her voice leaving her slightly in the wake of the strain it presented on her weakened limbs to rise to a sitting position.

“Lauren—I won’t allow myself to intrude and indulge upon the generosity of our hosts any longer.” She smiled rather sadly up at her, pointedly not meeting the gaze of Lord Hawkes. Holding out beseeching fingers, she tilts her head as another raspy cough escapes her chest.

“If you could escort me back to my parent’s estate, that would be—“

_“Nonsense!_ ” William stood now, a hand on his companion’s shoulder, easing her back into the blankets with surprising reverence, like he were touching a delicate swan, stained glass that could shatter with anything more than a mere breath of his fingertips. 

“I refuse to leave a sick woman to walk home in the dead of the sweltering afternoon when I could just as easily have given her ample care under my roof—“ he paused. “Did you feel that you were intruding when you came to visit all those other times?”

Kym’s eyes widened, and she shook her head.

“Then why would you make a similar assumption, Ladell?” He grinned, his teeth white and perfect, his smile wide and inviting. “Please. I insist—stay here and recuperate until you are ready to return to your own house. I can send a letter to your parents—“

Lauren cut in with a little cough, alerting the two to the fact that she was still very much in the room. “I can inform them. Our families are close, after all, and—“

_“Oh!”_ Kym leapt up again, forcing William to let out a hurried grunt as she strained the arm holding her back. “Don’t tell them I _walked_ here—they’d never let me hear the end of it!”

She threw her head back dramatically. “Oh, I can hear now, what they’ll say! ‘ _Kym Ladell, you absolute disgrace to the family—‘“_

_“Kym._ Your parents are darlings, they really wouldn’t—“

“‘ _If, perhaps, you wouldn’t sit around eating watermelon and aching for a knife all the time, I suppose we’d have gotten you married to a man whose bed you_ didn’t _usurp unduly when you were ill with the most ravenous consumption—‘“_

“Is she always like this, or does she have a worse fever than I thought?” Will leaned towards Lauren, speaking in a stage whisper. Lauren shook her head laughing.

“I’m afraid Kym is always this— _spirited.”_

_“That so?”_

“I’m sure that Kym’s only appropriate moniker is as such.” Lauren provided, amused at his interest.

“Right! Right! Well—“ Kym turned her head languidly, the blue of her hair pooling about her head in a halo of navy, highlighting the still ever-present spark in her tawny eyes, the burnt ochre of mischief and suspense that followed Kym Ladell like the devil to her shoulder.

“—If I am to truly recover, then I am afraid I must do the hard thing and kick the both of you out of my resting chambers.” She smiled, her eyes already fluttering for want of sleep.

Lauren laughed, making for the door. “Of course, of course.”

But before Will followed out on her heels, she did not miss the way he tucked the covers tighter around her shoulders, the soft look in the corners of his eyes as he closed the door to the room.

That left the two of them in the hallway to try and reconcile the awkward feeling in the air. 

“So—“ he began, his tone light and conversational. “Do you like Netherfield? Is it to your fancy?”

“Oh—“ she waved a hand, “It is a splendid house, surely.”

Will hummed as they descended the stairwell, his face open and amused. He had a nice face—plain, perhaps, and handsome in a washed sort of way, his features chiseled from limestone and set in a perpetual state of passive clarity, like someone who was utterly prepared for the things life had to throw at him, lobbying his own grievances to his waiting hands like perfectly rounded stones.

“It used to be my family’s estate, this. I managed to buy it back, after my mother’s recent passing. Well—“

He stopped, looking down at his feet. “I suppose that’s a bit unfair.”

He looked over at her, a curious glint in his eyes. “Kieran helped me, a bit.”

Lauren tried to disguise the urge to reproduce the grimace she always displayed at any mention of Kieran White. She turned to him slowly, cocked her head and attempted a look of innocent curiosity.

“That so? You both are very close then, must be—“

“Oh indeed!” The man gushed, his eyes very wide and smiled just as so. “Kieran and I—we’ve been close since boyhood.” He stopped.

“We have the same mentor—Sir Hermann, from up near the eleventh precinct. I’m sure you’ve heard tales of him?”

The tales that William spoke of consisted of retellings of Sir Herman’s notorious temper, how he’d managed to get fifty servants fired in a single day due a fault of his own regarding a letter-mix up, his tendency to spontaneously criticize the people who made his acquaintance, and, most prominently, her own unfavorable impression of him from a family dinner a few years back, where he’d somehow managed to not only insult her, her uncle, and her late parents in one consecutive row, but had upset the servants enough that two of them resigned the morning after.

“I have heard **only the most wonderful things.”**

“Ah—“ he waved a hand, laughing. “You needn’t lay it on so thick, Lady Sinclair—we all know what he’s really like!“

She laughed at this, nodding. “I will not, then--he is rather--”

“Temperamental?” He offered, chuckling.

“Yes!” She nodded fervently, giggles escaping her.

Then, she paused. “Please—“ she looked at him, smiling. “Call me Lauren.”

He only looked startled for a brief moment, before his face morphed into acute pleasure. “Very well, Lauren. Please, return the favor, and call me Will. It’s what my friends call me.”

She cocked her head, smiled. “Ah! Am I to be your friend now, _Will?”_

He nodded, pointing jovially to the mud still drying on her hem. “Anybody who takes it upon themselves to sully what must be a very effusive attire—“

“—Oh, I can assure you, this was nothing—“

“—to come at such haste to a friend’s aid, is in turn made favorable in my confidence!” He tilted his head. “So do, please.”

She laughed heartily, her heart warming. Yes, Kym had appeared to have chosen well, a man who made friends easily and conversed well, and, despite the figures of his upbringing stirring questionable favors from her, evidently well bred and sustained in virtue.

If only _all_ his friends were chosen upon such a wisdom. She thought dully to stray locks of raven hair bearing down on a chiseled face, pockmarked with malignant wit and a scathing humor that let her reeling in the wake of her irritation. 

“So, Kieran--Lord White. Excuse me for asking this, but--” She stopped, a hand on her chin. “You both seem like polar opposites of each other--and yet, you are bosom friends! I find it quite admirable, that.”

“Ah!” He threw back his head, laughter pealing from somewhere deep in his bones. “Kieran’s not _so_ severe--sure, he may be--”

“Arrogant?”

“Well--”

“Affronting?”

“I--”

“Wholly intolerable?”

“Well--you seem to have many opinions for someone who is branded as those scathing things, Lauren.” He smiled knowingly at her. She felt an indignant flush rise to her cheeks, unbidden, wishing she could tamp it out like stoking a fire. 

“I simply--” she stopped, looked down. “Well. I suppose you’re correct; there’s no excuse for my intolerance of him.”

Will cocked his head. “If he has done something to offend you, I apologize for it. He often says what’s on his mind--and ignores the feelings of others.”

_“That_ is most evident.” She scoffed. “You needn’t apologize on his behalf--he should be doing that for you.”

“Most wise of you, Lauren.” He stopped by the door, turning back to her.

“That hem--I’m afraid the dirty looks people have been giving you will not cease past these gates.” He gestured, his face reluctant.

“There’s a river in the thrush yonder--past the hyacinth grove. I can offer you that, if you’d like to take it upon yourself to--”

“That would be _most_ kind, thank you, Will.” She smiled amiably, impressed with his consideration.

Then, with one last curtsey offered, she exited. 

“Oh!” She turned back suddenly, holding up a finger. 

“Take care of Kym, or I’m afraid she won’t be the only one at your heels.”

Will laughed, his face expressive. “I wouldn’t want two hounds nipping my coattails, now! I feel they are rather nice, my choice in attire.”

“That’s so, O’ Lord.” And with a playful smile, one of open trust, she let herself drift down the stone steps of Netherfield, the door creaking behind her only leaving her behind with butterflies again.

Locating the hyacinth garden from when she had first come to the grand estate was not a harrowing task. She merely had to turn to her right, and there were the rows of flowers, neatly kept and tasked duly with lining a pathway to the riverbed.

She walked through the field, feeling the petals caress her skin in hypnotic rhythm, the colors shifting in a kaleidoscope of burning color, purple coming last among them. It came in droves, the shade and tint, and it permeated the areas across the riverbank like crystallized shells, gleaming violent and lavender as the water rushed into a steady, soothing song. 

There, she was surprised to once again run into the man she least wanted to.

She had assumed that Kieran was holed up in a musty study in the very corner of the crawling estate, hunched over the letters his fiancee had mentioned were urgent; but one look at the man sitting on the rock, a large pad of parchment and various charcoals in hand, told her that this mental image of the reclusive Lord White was not one founded in reality. 

He had discarded the blazer that had clung to him like a tight skin he wasn’t keen on retaining, and was now purely in the white undershirt that blended with the rock like dove feathers. His back was to hers, but she could still make out the reverent concentration he paid to his pad and paper, the way his hands and fingers moved in precision as he outlined the figure of a sprawling oak on the bank beyond. Such was his conviction and her awe at how serene he looked, that it almost pained her to shatter the thin veneer of carefully constructed silence.

Almost.

“I see you aren’t quite doing what you’re supposed to be, Lord White.”

He turned, startled, and when he registered who exactly it was, he only regarded her with something of mild annoyance.

“I see you aren’t as well, Lady Sinclair. If you are out here, I presume it to mean that you are leaving the estate.”

“Hm. You assume wrongly, Sir.” She hummed, a hand on her hip and one brushing over her skirt self-consciously, shaking out the wrinkles in it as she made for the bank of the river.

“Oh? Then pray, do enlighten me on what you are doing here.” He said, his voice still terse. She cocked her head, regarded him with steady belligerence, frosty patience, thin like flecks of sheet ice on a frozen pond.

“I do not think I have such an obligation to you, Lord White--”

“Perhaps you do, for encroaching on my space,” He challenged. She bristled, her hackles rising like a phoenix, ready for a fiery war that only the waters of the river could stave.

“You think you are so entitled--? Well.” She stopped. “I’m here to wash my _offending_ appearance, if it pleases you.”

“Oh.” He smiled, a sardonic smirk like one of a god who is displeased curving on his face, rendering him somehow ever more disheveled, more artfully chaotic. “The evidence of your little excursion. Tell me--”

And he rose from his seated position on the rock, his pant legs wet up to the ankles already with river sand, his steps like as he sauntered over to her. His pad lay forgotten on the boulder, and when she snuck a glance over the shoulder of his imposing frame she found herself staring at a perfect rendition of leaves in grey and mahogany charcoal, the stalks of a tree glaring at her from a background of hazy blank parchment. It was a good likeness; she had not thought he had the aptitude, nor the patience for it.

“--does walking tickle your fancy, particularly?”

“It _does,_ in fact.” She countered, her voice just as low, just as searching. She cocked her hip in defiance, a hand already dipped in the cold, rushing waves of clear as she bent to test the temperature. 

“And are you predisposed to do so in even the harshest of weather, or is your stubbornness particularly flagging on this day--?” He asked, his fingers spread, a smirk on his lips again.

She chuckled mirthlessly, holding out a hand dripping with fresh water droplets in a mockery of supplication. 

“I don’t think his lordship has a right to call _me_ stubborn and set in my ways when he is clearly avoiding his own tasks with such equal vigor.” She pointed to the pad of paper behind him, now blowing steadily with wisps of the cool breeze shooting through the glen like spears of ice. 

“Do you come out here often, Sir?”

He shrugs, a languid wave of his shoulders, his expression impassive. “When I can. It calms me--as walking seems to do for you.”

She chuckled harshly, bit her tongue of its more ambitious endeavors.

“I didn’t know you had an affinity for art, Lord White.”

“I fear there is much you have yet to learn about me, Lady Sinclair.”

“Then please, carry on without enlightening me, for I have not a very good memory for such things.” She tilted her head, hands on her hips and blue meeting gold steadily, unwavering.

“Oh?”

“Well--aside from the fact that I _distinctly_ recall that his lordship does not take amicably to any art that is done with a more favorable company than himself.”

He stopped cold. 

“Are you still harping on my many follies, Sinclair?”

“Many--oh, I would be disposed to say that you were _only_ comprised of follies, White.”

He sneered. “Your appearance says otherwise. **I do not know how they can call you such a lady if you come here looking like--”**

He stopped, evidently choked to continue, though whether it was out of pity for her senses or through the more unlikely consideration of her own embarrassment, she could not accurately say. 

“I fear I hear your lovely fiance speaking through you now, Lord White.” She smiled, drawing closer, until she could see the taut lines in his tense face. He was still young, still rather beautiful in a marble sort of way, but his face was as closed as the iron gates of the estate, ever the opposite to his bright friend in every possible way. She drew closer yet, willing him to feel her displeasure.

“She isn’t exactly here, now, is she? I find it difficult for her to influence any part of what I say.”

“So the women in your life have no considerable hold on your opinion of others, do they?”

“I have only ever known few women whose opinion is unbiased towards their own sex enough for me to consider it seriously in debate.”

She paused, considering him. Then, she nodded mockingly. “I suppose that is true enough. I cannot tease you if that is the veracity you feel.” 

He cocks his head, something new in his face. It was more serious, more searching than she would have liked. “The way you say that--”

“Hm?”

‘It’s as though you knew.”

She stopped dead. Stared at him.

“You say that like it is a fact--”

“I do not know what you mean.”

“Oh, but I think you do--”

He leant ever closer, so his head was level with hers, and the river raged on beside them warring forms. 

“I would think that a Lady so sure of her own righteousness would be more careful in public, walking and showing such outward displays of rebellion.” And as he said this, he reached forward, untilt the fabric of one of her sleeves was in his hands, and she could feel the warmth radiating from his palms.

She jerked away, bringing the hand to her sternum. “Tell me, Lord White--your most cherished friend, back that in that little estate of yours--” she indicated the pathway back to the sprawling outer field--”he speaks very highly of you.”

“Is that so? Well, I shall make sure to tell him my utmost gratitude--”

“I _do_ wonder, your lordship--” she queried, fingers to her lips--”if your dear friend was ill, would you react with just as much fervor as he would do to you?”

He stopped, looking at her blankly, as though he was realizing something.

“She was _sick--?”_

Lauren scoffed. “My! Lord White seems to be ignorant of the things that occur in his own _household!_ So perhaps you _are_ listening to your betrothed, after all, however much of a modicum it may be-- _”_

Kieran shook his head, confused. “I didn’t--”

Then, he stopped, seeming to realize that arguing with her would be a fruitless endeavor. “Quite--anyhow. I would, I think, do that, if he were sufficiently indisposed.”

“Only sufficiently.”

“I do make it a habit to comport myself in a manner befitting my status, no matter how harrying the conditions or situation.”

“Oh! Is that a commendable achievement.” She smiled winningly, disarmingly, reaching a hand up to his collar, and he glanced down frantically, in mild alarm--

“Well--allow me to be your teacher, your lordship. I wonder if _every_ circumstance would be so accepting of your fine breeding--”

And with that, she tightens her movement, pushes until his entire body is tilted, and then the great and composed Lord White is tumbling into a rushing whorl of river water, a great, resounding splash crying out in the din of the glen.

When he comes to his feet, water dripping artfully from his hair, his undershirt, leaving it clinging to his skin, and a bewildered look plastered on his face, as though he’d been shot rather than doused with water aplenty, she finally snaps back to, registers that what she’s done might be entirely a breach of many of her personal contracts.

They stare at each other, him sopping and her near laughing with hysterical disbelief. Her hem is still unwashed, yet.

Somehow, he has managed to win the argument--because she finds she cannot tease him about an unkempt appearance, when he looks like _that,_ when the hurt on his face amuses her so.

Then, she bows hastily, spitting out the last words of the argument, always content to have those as her laurels in victory.

“I do hope we are even now, Lord White.”

And she hurries out of the glen, leaving Kieran to stand in the midst of the river, water lapping at his ankles like impatient dogs, a look of intense concentration on his face.

When he looks back to his pad, he stops in his motions of wringing water out of his clothes.

Somehow, some way, she’d managed to keep it intact, tilting him in a such an angle so that water would not splash on his sketch of the oak tree yonder, unfinished as it was.

So. 

That was how she played her games, then.

———

Later, on the walk back home, too stubborn--yes, perhaps he _was_ right, damn him--to call for a carriage, so that they will not look at her with scathing and horrified looks, disheveled as her appearance is, she ruminates herself.

She runs through the events of the evening, finding an embarrassed flush rising to her cheeks at the way she had run her course, especially towards the latter end of the night.

She comes to one realization that haunts her, one she doesn’t quite like to dwell on, for fear of what it means.

That when she’d bumped into Lord White that first time in the tea room, despite it having been a season since they’d met last, he had not had to search for her name in his mind.

———

Lauren Sincalir, ever dignified, walks into her home with a proud tilt of her head, a defiant set of her heels.

Lucy stops when she takes in the state her young mistress is in, but tosses any comment in favor of getting straight to the matter at hand.

“Your uncle is in the study, Miss. With--”

“Yes, yes. I will report to him, thank you, Lucy--”

“Wait--Miss--there’s--!”

But Lauren had already burst into the drawing room, mud on her heels and Lucy shouting incoherences after her. 

“I’ve gone and settled it, Uncle--Kym is staying at Netherfield for--”

And then she stops dead, for--like she would have been informed if she had only stopped to listen to Lucy’s pleas--there was another man in the room.

“Ah--Ren.” Tristan rose from his seat on the divan, smiling lightly and pointedly ignoring her lower half, the mud rising on her ankles. 

“I’m sorry--this is an impromptu company. But--an old associate of mine has just come on business--I’d like you to--”

But the man had already stood, his face obscured by the brim of a rather imposing hat, the look of it old and worn. As he tilted his head, exposing more of it to the late evening sun, she found herself staring into the eyes of one whose visage bore more than harried lines and taunting wrinkles. 

Something red glinted in the shadows cast by firelight, a fissure of skin and scar tissue. 

“--meet him. Lauren--this is Sir Tim Sake.”

And the aforementioned man, he tipped his hat, exposing the true length of the cut across his forehead, dribbling down his face like river water stained scarlet.

“He’ll be in Central Ardhalis for a bit. You might remember him--from a couple years prior.”

Lauren stopped cold.

She looked at him steadily, although if one had looked closer, they would have seen the hatred in her eyes, not unbecoming of her beautiful features.

Then, with practiced nonchalance, she dipped low, held out her fingers for him to take. 

His hands were clammy. She said nothing; belied none of her inner torrent, the storm. 

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Lady Sinclair.”

And she knew then, that the headache that had ceased since spring, was to be dutifully exacerbated in the oppressive summer heat once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *even more vigorous jazz hands*
> 
> You’ll see where and all I go with the character parallels! I’m having a lot of fun with them, lol.
> 
> Thank you so much for the response on the first chapter! Like whoa—I was blown away, absolutely. 
> 
> Also—I might be able to promise some...Lune action? Mayhaps. You’ll see, lovely reader. 
> 
> Comments/kudos are orange lilies <3
> 
> Insta: @artsofisha
> 
> -thumbipeach


	3. The Sinclair Estate, and a Proposal Made Before Breakfastime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the present moment, Kieran White is finding the hue of the apple tree in front of him to be more than a little frustrating.

**Fall XX27**

At the present moment, Kieran White is finding the hue of the apple tree in front of him to be more than a little frustrating.

As the autumn winds had come in full force, spreading overlays of gold and scarlet across Netherfield park and sending Kieran into a kind of euphoria at the prospect of such color, so too had the slight melancholy that came with the season. Like the precursor to a harsh and unyielding snowfall to come, autumn often read like a harbinger, the saturated colors only a temporary and fleeting tapestry draped over clouds of powder snow and frost bitten gray.

He likes to think he makes a rather smashing attempt, splotches of canary yellow and red like the blood of a wounded bird dancing across the canvas like perfect dove feathers, and yet something in him pitches a fit when he looks up at the tree he has been scrutinizing for the past hour, his muse made inadequate on the page resting on his crossed knees.

A latent breeze flutters the stray bits of parchment at his side, and as his hair whips about his forehead in loose, stray ringlets and the collar of his shirt brushes against chilled skin, he tamps down the pages with a swift hand to keep them from being blown asunder, grimacing as he clutches the edge of the canvas in distaste.

Suddenly, like a wave, vanilla and the cloying scent of calla lilies permeates the crisp air, and it is so rampant and effusive that he doesn’t need to question who is behind him. He hears the click of kitten heels hidden under layers of tulle, and he doesn’t have to turn from his position on the lower balcony, ensconced like a lithe panther in an ornate divan, to know that her dress strikes scarlet and her face waxes a poetry of displeasure.

“You can’t avoid him forever, darling.” Her sybillant voice presses, just as she loops an arm over his shoulders. He can smell vanilla still, though it is marred with a kind of metallic tang that leaves him reeling, leaves his tongue smarting.

“I’m not  _ avoiding  _ anybody, Bella.” He protested through knitted teeth. Somewhere, some bell sounded that made the statement ring a clarion call of falsity, sounding sour even to his own ears. Bella scoffed, patting a hand on his shoulder before retreating, staring up at the tree he’s been focusing his intense gaze on.

She could not have his artist’s poise and discretion, could not hope to match his appreciation for the flawed, the damaged beyond belief. So when she looked at the gnarled oak, the leaves beginning to seep muddy brown into rice paper-thin edges, she saw only the dereliction, the fear of falling, the inevitability of barren branches. Thus, a scoff bled from lips no doubt painted with red ink, a roll of piercing, snake-like eyes gracing her porcelain features, though he could not see.

“He’s been back in Central Ardhalis for-- _ what,  _ a whole  _ season  _ yet, and you have still not extended any form of grace--”

“Need I, really?” Kieran asked tersely, his attention diverted to a particularly rough spot on the canvas, where the acrylic paint washed thin and molded the colors together in an ugly hue of dry soot. 

“He’ll be perfectly alright on his own--I don’t really need to entertain him, truly--”

_ “Sometimes,  _ Kieran,” she began, a curious note in her voice making him pause in his work, half turn his head just until he could see the waves of her dress behind the curving backrest of the divan, “I wonder if you forget that it’s not  _ about  _ you.”

Kieran stopped, waiting to hear the onslaught of words to come. Because once Belladonna started up, her voice would not stop. It was thin enough to snake into his defenses, high enough to shatter glass. It was unceasing, and he could not say that he felt anything to it other than the utmost contempt.

“I know you feel some-- _ animosity,  _ still, towards our  _ old  _ friend. But you have to understand that his generosity has benefitted not only Lord Hermann and significantly bolstered you  _ and  _ my beloved cousin--”

And here she leant forward, and the scent of autumn leaves was drowned in a perfume too thick to call anything but the most unsubtle. 

“--but has allowed for our union to be brought through. So  _ really--” _ leaves blew off their hinges, showering the reluctant couple in shades of maroon and canary yellow--”I think you should be more grateful.”

Kieran couldn’t help the sardonic laugh that bubbled to his lips, and tossing his shoulder at his fiancee, he returned to meticulously marking the twisting vines of the old oak tree. 

_ ‘Grateful,  _ Bella? I can hardly find it in myself to be particularly  _ grateful  _ to him after--”

“You  _ know  _ that what he did was for the good of us all.” Bella dismissed, her voice placid and calm, like a level ocean hiding snapping teeth and dewdrops of venom underneath. 

“I  _ don't _ think I can find it in me to think that way,” Kieran retorted icily, a frost rendered precipitant by the autumn’s chill, still traced with the sweet hints of a long, cicada bound summer, a babbling river and nests of purple blossoms popping into mind.

“Besides--” he looked down, and his hair spilled across his vision, streaking the red and gold like latent tree branches--”our  _ union,  _ as you call it, is no more positively anticipated by me than it is by you.”

Bella paused for a moment, and he could hear the soft rustle of her numerous hems on the cool stone floor of the balcony as she shifted her weight, readying herself, no doubt, for an onslaught. 

“You assume, Kieran, as always--”

“You  _ cannot  _ tell me,  _ dear--”  _ Kieran turned fully, this time, azure meeting burnt whiskey gold in a challenge, a belligerent fight of a panther and a viper, cold yellow and black mixing beneath his eyelids.

“--that you  _ genuinely  _ look forward to taking my name?”

Bella stopped, then threw back her head and laughed. “Hm? Should I be only kind and caring, then?”

“Please, do be kind and spare me your falsity, dearest Bella.” Kieran chuckled. “Dishonesty sounds sour coming from such a pretty mouth.”

“Hm.” Bella turned up her chin, looking down at him from long, curving lashes. They fluttered in her distaste, like gossamer wings of a butterfly tainted with ink. He was torn, suddenly, between wanting to escape her crying fangs, or wanting to rip a sheet of paper from his book and draw her, frame her inhuman curves and angles in greys and soft creams.

“I look forward to it--purely because it is something inevitable.”

Kieran turned to her incredulously. “You don’t seriously  _ want  _ to do this, do you?”

Bella shook her head. “If the idea was about  _ happiness,  _ I would have long lamented the day I was ever put in a skirt. But the fact of the matter is that every rich man must be in want of a wife--so there must be wives to be in want of.”

She looked out at the oak, her lip curving as the branches swayed in the wind. “I do not intend to be satisfied--”

Kieran laughed harshly. “Not with someone like me, no?”

“Hm--if you insist on it.” She crossed her arms around her elbows, like she was anchoring herself to her own tether, held on by a thin rope.

"You--I think you are rather lax. You lack the cold ruthlessness your father did, and I particularly think that I'll never really like you--"

_ "Really,  _ you  _ are  _ too kind--"

“But marriage-- before sentimentality, it is a business partnership first.” She looked down at him steadily, conviction in her gaze. 

“You and I are business partners--nothing more.” She shrugged. “I don't have to like you--I can live with that.”

“Can you live with it even if your partner is wholly unwilling?"

“Well that depends--” she snarled. “On whether my partner wants to make his life more of a misery by being uncooperative.”

Kieran shrugged, turning away again to pay all of the deserved attention to his canvas. He looked down at the way the leaves dappled planes of shadow across the white, shading the leaves in soft noir and grey, blurring together in unfocused lenses of light and the absence of.

Bella stopped. 

“Is this about--that woman?”

Kieran whirled on her. “What--”

_ “That--”  _ she picked up a yard of her dress as if to illustrate, contorting her face in something equal to the utmost contempt. “woman who fancies herself a Lady. The one we were introduced to last spring. You  _ know--” _

Kieran laughed, shadow overcast across the hard, set lines to his face, creating a vision of him that was much older, more jaded and guarded than he necessarily should have been given to be. 

“Whatever the hell you’re talking about-- _ do  _ leave other people out of it.”

“Hm.” Bella hummed again, the smooth drawl of her voice like gramophone static, like the pittering of a ruined record.

“Whatever you wish,  _ darling.” _

Then, with a bow, she placed an envelope over the fresh paint on his canvas, staining the pristine ivory with blemishes of acrylic varnish, like a fire licking up its heels as though he’d tossed it in the grate. 

“For the 14th, January. Camellia. Tim won’t take no for an answer, and you  _ will  _ come, and have an absolutely smashing time, and drink and laugh with us and generally be very merry, and all will be settled, by then.”

She turned on her heel to go, but not before his deep, curious timbre called her back, the notes pitched with some tune that few many could decipher.

“And is this our decision, or yours?” He turned over his shoulder, his teeth bared.

Bella shrugged her shoulders, disappearing in waves behind the gauzy curtains leading into Netherfield’s depths.

“It is only business, after all.”

Kieran looked down, noting the bleeding hues of molten fire, the crimson and burnished orange like whiskey and honey, like bloody dewdrops, and wondered why the longing for solace now felt so far out of reach.

———

Lauren Sinclair, on the other hand, would not hesitate to admit to the fact that she had been dutifully avoiding Tim Sake since his arrival in late summer.

Somehow she’d managed, through clever dips into nooks and crannies and excuses scrounged like scraps, to ignore the man’s offending presence, the way his scar would crinkle like wax paper when he smiled his dishonest smile, the way his teeth would curve like crooked metal, the way he never meant any word he said, no matter how soft, how soothing it may sound to the untrained ear.

Yes, somehow she’d managed to avoid that.

_ “He is eager for the light that is your company this evening—” _

_ “Tell him that is all too kind, but I do fear that the stained glass of his whiskey glass would cast a better flame than I could.” _

_ “You  _ are  _ cold to him.” _

_ “I pay my dues, uncle.” _

_ A day passes. _

_ “He would join us for dinner, one of these days.” _

_ “I do hope he finds the yams to his fancy.” _

_ “Not the squashes?” _

_ “They are too good, I think, for his palate. They deserve—a soup.” _

_ “One which you cannot make.” _

_ “I will learn, if only so that I can know what to withhold.” _

_ “Cruel niece of mine.” _

_ “And only fair.” _

_ More than days—weeks, months, not a year, not quite yet, but the corn stalks dripping their husks signify that it might be almost that, and still she has not come to terms with His presence. _

But that didn’t mean that the autumn was going to be necessarily any  _ kinder  _ to her, despite introducing an obstacle such as Tim Sake into the fray of discarded leaves and the acrid scents of overgrown vegetables, pumpkins and squash blossoms. 

No, there was another tribulation that Lauren Sinclair had to face, and as was the wont of all tribulations, it introduced itself in the pits of morning she’d rather not have faced otherwise.

Lucy, with all the grace of a stumbling spaniel, pushed open the door to her room with a creak, hurriedly moving to light the candle by her bedside as Lauren, disturbed from a fitful and restless sleep, muttered incoherently into her pillow. 

“My lady—“

“Hm—?”

“Please, you must come, prepare yourself.” 

Lauren, not bothering to roll over and blind herself with latent sunlight, opted to speak into the muffled drone of her sheets, her voice weak with lethargy.

“Why…?”

“Please, just—“

_ “What  _ is the rush, Lucy?” Lauren propped herself up, watched as the maid frantically pulled open the curtains, spilling dust over the carpet and allowing the shifting hues of the maple tree outside her window to crash into the room and blaze the spaces like an inferno of sheer gold and orange.

She turned to her, and the alarming note in her eyes forced Lauren upwards, clutching the sheets around her in loose fingers.

“Your uncle has invited someone here.”

Lauren fell backwards again with a groan of frustration. “If it’s— _ Lord Sake  _ again merely tell them I am indisposed—“

_ “No.”  _ Lucy stayed firmly, and Lauren lifted her arm from her eyes, looked over at her curiously. Her face was resolute stone, and Lauren realized that never once before had she looked so icy, so—

What was it—?

Erratic. Rendered to static, like the scratching of a radio tune snuffed short.

“Your uncle—“ she swallowed, as if she could already taste the rebuttal that would come at the announcement of her information—

“Has found you a suitor.”

Lauren stared.

Her first thought and only response bubbled to her lips like the screaming cry of a river, before she could manage to stifle it behind the delicate hands of one called a Lady, a true gentlewoman.

“Before breakfast?”

Lucy nodded solemnly. “Before breakfast.”

Lauren couldn’t help it; she began to laugh.

Yes, she could only muster, through a haze of disbelief and her still addled, sleep strung state, a laughter that could be named as bordering hysteria.

She laughed as she threaded shaking fingers through her hair, letting crimson fall loose around her shoulders like rivulets of sheltered blood, of silk ribbons and cardinal feathers dancing beneath her eyelids. 

She laughed as she rose, snuffing out the candle Lucy had lit as the morning sun began to hawk its wares to the crevices of her room, moving to her dresser, toeing over bits of clothing and a sewing project she’d abandoned in favor of doing anything else, a long while back.

She laughed as she smoothed a dress of gentle silk against her hips, the fabric a blush rose color that was subtle enough to lay claim to the fact that she was none other than the most delicate woman, and yet bold enough to mask the fact that underneath, she was anything but. She laughed as she threaded pearls around her neck, the globes set in perfect lines, like ants, like a row of teeth.

And her hollow giggles continued as she cinched her waist with a simple ribbon, trussed up her tresses in a slipshod bun, and turned on her heel to regard a discomforted Lucy.

"Let's see, then! What this prospect entails for me before my hunger has been sated."

She breezed out of the threshold and caught the banister in fingers swathed with pastel folds of gossamer, feeling the fabric trail as she slid her hand down the handle. Feet tapping daintily at the bottom of the landing, she made towards the dining hall where, from years of experience, she knew her uncle always placed her potential suitors.

It was always that; a little ritual of figurines, nesting dolls falling in casings. There’d be the introduction, the stale feeling in the air, the awkward tension of a stranger in her home, her sanctuary. Then there’d be the rites, the serving of potatoes only halfway to mashed, because despite being of marriageable age she still was not a good cook, the brushing of skirts and the intermittent clicks of silverware. Then the talking, small quickly escalating to a size too broad to handle, and there’d be a lie, a quip taken too wrongly, and she’d flutter her lashes demurely and stare down at her clasped hands to hide the fact that she was seething, feeling nothing but numb. 

Yes, that was the picture film of Lauren Sinclair’s debut into society, and it certainly would not stop running its tune, like a roll of photos playing the same image over, and over, and over again, unfailingly.

This time would be no different, she expected. The dining room was as it always was: bright, robin’s eggshell hues staining the walls and the upholstery, the grinning oak and the chairs placed to give the impression that the room was never used. It looked routine, like another morning, another autumn, like another fall.

Until she stepped into the threshold of the wide dining room, scanned it until her eyes settled on the new wax rendition in the room, and she had to stop, because this newspaper clipping was too white, too grey and pallid to be anything other than  _ horribly  _ familiar.

The man turned, and the first snow fell early, this morning, as the light encased his straw-white hair like a binding halo, as the dappled colors of the sweetest autumn were lost in monochrome.

He smiles, a smile she had not seen in years, the last being amongst shifting rows of bright tulip, fool's gold and sky blue.

_ “Ren!”  _ He says, and his voice is deeper, and it startles her more than the mere fact of his presence.

Lauren Sinclair, however, shows no weakness.

She holds herself high, composes herself like fixing a discordant piano cry.

_ “Dylan.  _ What—a surprise.”

A surprise, a surprise.

_ You are cruel, Lady Sinclair. _

———

“Is it particularly…?” He began uneasily, his slate grey eyes seeming to rove over her, searching in that intense way, like when they were children and he had just discovered a perfect curl of petals, and it would fascinate him to no end.

“Well—“ she huffed. “A ten year gap is something enough to facilitate my shock, no?”

Silence. Again, he looked uneasy, and he removed his cap from his head, leaving wisps of white to fling the early morning static, waving like the core of a weed in sunlit ivory. 

“I’m—“

“After you moved out I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the lack of communication on your part, Mr. Rosenthal.” Lauren retorted, trying time keep the icy note out of her voice as she began to close the gaping chasm between them, not wanting to pick an argument before the potatoes had even shown themselves from the depths of the kitchen. 

Still, she felt as though something was horribly, horribly wrong. Someone was playing a sour piano somewhere, the song in her head grossly out of tune, like rotted apples in late fall.

“Well—“ he spread his fingers, smiled that smile that used to charm everyone within an appropriate distance. 

“Why— _ how  _ are you here?” She asked incredulously, her hands still clasped in disbelief. 

He turned to the side, looked downcast. She noted his new age, noted the slightly harder set to his jaw, the feel of his eyes on the wooden floorboards.

“Your uncle—he looked me up where I had been, far north.” He pointed upwards, towards the dim ceiling lights, as if that would illustrate anything more illuminating, less cryptic. Lauren didn’t say anything.

“Asked how I’d been—how my father was.”

“And how  _ is  _ he—? Yes, I never managed to ask over my shock.”

Dylan laughed at that. “I see you’re still—very much the Ren I knew," he said warmly, like it was summer, like the sun bloomed across the morning foliage.

Still she did not reply.

“He has—well.” He suddenly turned serious. “He passed, some years ago.”

Lauren still felt her brows turn in sympathy, though she was still guarding herself from the spectre of her childhood friend, the looming normalcy of him in her dining room, cap in his fingers. If she squinted, it still might have had the patch she’d sewn on when he’d gotten it caught in the briars of a rose bush. 

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

He looked up, smiling thinly. “Quite alright. It had been around his time, at any rate. It was something only inevitable.”

Lauren nodded. He started back up again, rubbing his neck sheepishly as he made his way over to the table, moving to stand beside her. They were deceptively alone, and yet Lauren felt she could sense something beyond her reach, a scuffling of shoes and stifled whispering.  
  
  


When she came close to him, he stopped her with a hand, and before she could begin to profess her confusion, he took her hands in his, pressing something into her fingers before closing them with a smile.

When she unfurled them, she let out a gasp at the little twist of small white petals, of the bright yellow center, like an egg yolk, like the sun itself.

”Oh!” She looked down. “You—remembered!”

He nodded, chuckling. “How could I forget?”

She held the daisy up to her lips, savoring the scent of summer and spring still clinging to it like a petulant child that would not leave. Fluttering her lashes and fingering the pearls on her collar, she felt almost demure, like the doll she was supposed to be.

_ Lady Sinclair _ is _so cruel._

”You still have not answered my question.” She said.

Dylan’s expression morphed, and he thinned his lips, stuck his hands in his trouser pockets, looking askance. “Well—I _was_ coming to the city, soon—and your uncle knew this.”

He looked down. “...But he asked me to come down here— mentioned you—and said you’ve been well, but that you’re—“ he paused, evidently searching for words appropriate.

“—a little withering.”

Lauren scoffed, reaching around him for a set of plates that had been set out, stacked in neat towers, precarious discs of white china. He moved to help, but she swatted his hand away good naturedly, shaking her head.

“So. He said  _ that.”  _ She said rather irritably, silently condemning her uncle’s growing anxiety over her lack of a partner. 

It was bad enough, having to entertain men who wouldn’t bother to try and hide the lies they perpetuated, wouldn't hesitate to air their own pride to the air and let it seep into her bones. It was bad enough that, despite her protests to the contrary, watching Kym with Lord Hawkes was starting to become like pressing a bruise until puce bloomed on her skin.

But  _ this. _

Dylan was a bit different.

Having grown up with him, having known his ways, she was sure that he’d try and tiptoe around the issue until circles were drawn so tight around it as to constrict her. She was sure that he wouldn’t have the courage to act his role, as the concerned friend trying to be something else, and  _ what  _ had Tristan thought, really, by asking him down here?

“So--” he started, his voice damp with morning and the faintest tinge of winter bite, having come from the north as he had. “I’m here now, Lauren. Would you like to have breakfast with me, ask me about my trip like adults--or should we banter, and throw things, like we were children?”

She regarded him steadily, her lips poised in a little pout that hid her growing anxiety. Then, fighting the war inside her that screamed, she nodded reluctantly, pulling out a chair and letting him sit down beside her. She made sure all was right, though the frantic movements of her fingers were unnecessary; the chairs were spotless, the table beautifully sans crumbs, and the little planters of late yellow chrysanthemums, blooming their canary hues such like the trees outside were perfectly kept up, almost like they were cast in shiny wax and preserved to pressed dignity. 

The tension, strung like taut taffy and bleeding just as pulled candy, sickly sweet and bitter all the same, it did not leave once he’d ensconced himself in the perfectly upholstered chair. She could hear the scuffs of cotton on hardwood, could hear the uncomfortable rustle of her own skirts as she took the proffered tea kettle from a maid’s silent, waifish fingers.

Small talk erupted. Spits of “how have you been,” “the weather, the living conditions?” “the company you keep must be particularly fine,” they bordered on repetition, like the droning call of a newspaper. Still, the tension remained, but some of the glacial atmosphere generated by a near ten year absence began to melt. She remembered tulip fields and sunny rivers, babbling a steady tune as he proclaimed he’d want to be a--

“Oh!’ She started, setting down the teacup with a clink and causing her partner to wince slightly with the way the discordant note rang. 

“Did you ever manage--to actually become a doctor, you know?” She turned to him, curious.

He smiled, once again worrying the back of his neck with prying fingers. 

“I-- _ did,  _ actually.” He admitted. She gasped politely, clapping her hands together. 

“That’s--”

“Wonderful, isn’t it?” He laughed, a little too harshly. “I’m--I mean, **it makes ends meet. Humble, really.”**

Lauren raised her eyebrows. “That so--?”

She had often been told that her gaze was something of an infectious quality. It always felt like it festered, like it roved over your skin and left you feeling like she had stolen your desires and kept them for her own. And that was thus, and Dylan Rosenthal, ten years older and apparently no less wiser to his old friend’s disposition, balked under her imperious gaze.

“I--mean.” He stammered, picking at the raspberry scones laid out on the table in front of them. “I shouldn’t exactly say that--I do make a considerable sum--”

_ “Why are you here, Dylan?”  _ She asked, firm but gentle. He looked up at her just as her brows twitched downward again.

“Why did you come, this morning? What did my uncle say to get you down here--?”

“He said--” he paused, at a loss for words. He continued to stir his tea and he focused his gaze there like the creamy pool of liquid was the only thing in the world worth his gaze. She continued to stare, waiting for the answer she knew, knew so well she could have probably filled the gap his silence created with the correct words in her own voice.

**“He just thought it best--”**

_ “I thought--”  _ she began, her voice dangerous--”that you knew me, by now, Dylan.”

He stopped, looked at her before his eyes dawned in understanding. He knew she knew, and nothing was different or the same.

_ “Don’t  _ try and lie to me, Rosenthal.” 

He sighed.

“Right, then.”

And then a frosty lance ran through her as he took her hand in his, turned to her, all earnest schoolboy. 

“Take  _ me,  _ then.”

Lauren didn’t say anything.

“Let’s get married.” 

Still, nothing. 

He averted his gaze, his eyes falling on the upset and neglected tea and scones, never returning to hers. 

“I know it’s not ideal--and I know you may need time.” He looked up.

“But I--and your uncle--see it as a good business opportunity.”

Nothing.

“It’s--” he stopped. “Perhaps that was bad wording--”

“You  _ think.”  _ She hissed, and he turned paler, and she hadn’t thought it possible, for him to match his pallor with his hair. But it came deathly close, and his ghoulish coloring left him a wisp in the sunlight ever building in the large room. Somewhere, someone stifled a gasp into their fist.

“What I mean is this--I have a considerable fortune--so do you.” He paused. “We knew each other--well.”

“We  _ did.”  _

He stopped. “And... **I do feel that while we have some catching up to do, our union would be most beneficial to both parties--”**

“I  _ can’t.”  _ She whispered. He grimaced.

“If you would— _ consider,  _ Ren. The—“

Lauren stood up, the force of it causing the chair to skid across the floor with a horrible shriek. He winced, and she looked down at him contemptuously, sadly, wondering where the time had gone that  _ this  _ was the conversation occurring.

“I  _ can’t,  _ Dylan--”

He thinned his lips. “I know it must be hard, but I assure you  **this is for the best--”**

_ “That--”  _ she pointed a belligerent finger--”Is a  _ lie.”  _

He still did not look her in the eye, still did not lift his face to hers in pious recompense. “Is it--truly?” His voice was directed at the scones, at the floor, anywhere but her.

“It is.” She heaved.

He heaved a sigh. “This is difficult for me, too, Ren--”

“Please.” She held up a hand. “Spare it.”

She shook her head. “Dylan--I do care for you, really I do, and you have to take my utmost word for that. But--”

She looked down, and her eyes were stormy with unnamed emotion. “I think both you and I know that this won’t work.”

Dylan stood with her, his hand still clutching her fingers desperately. “Are you--”

She pointed a finger towards the door. “Yes. Please, for the both of us--drop this charade. This is silly. And--”

She sighed. “If you knew anything about me, Dylan--”

She pointed again, firmer this time, sharp like the tang of citrus and a smoke like fires blazing. 

“You know I do not accept any proposals before breakfastime.”

He stopped, and regarded her for a moment. There was some beginning of resignation amongst bleeding regret, of apprehension, and that relieved her like a bucket of water, of ice and fire.

Then, setting his cap back on his head, wearily, like a man who has accepted his fate, he nodded. Weakly, he left, and she could hear the perfect clicks of his shoes on the landing, the slam of the front door.

Then, wordlessly, she turned to the other side of the room. 

“I’m going out--nobody follow me--” she said, her voice echoing in the cavernous emptiness, and as she hurried out the dining room, the sounds of rustling fabric, a hat tied and basket snatched from its confines in the coat closet, drowned out the distinct voice of her uncle shouting after her, incoherent yells of her ungrateful nature.

Lady Sinclair is cruel indeed.   
  


———

Her one solace was the market on Sundays, where the farmers would come to peddle their wares.

In the central square they would set up their den, rickety fence posts holding up tables of late pumpkin slices and jugs of cider pressed straight from fresh apples, and as she passed by the stalls laiden with fragrant jasmine and honey jars, she dipped her head lower, hid crimson under an unassuming beige hat, the ribbon tied so tightly around her chin she could feel its oppressive nature near clip her jaw with angry red marks.

She tried to escape the hawkers, the men who attempted to grab her hands and press oils and juge of myrrh into her fingers and name it hers for only a few gold pence coins, and hastily made her way to her favorite stall, the one that did not have anything edible or inherently valuable to its name, but for the leather-bound smell of fresh literature, of the crinkle of new pages of scrawling hand, of ribbons and dog ears.

She nodded at the gruff man sitting behind the counter of the stall, then began to peruse, running her fingers across rice paper and parchment, picking up a hard copy of red and beginning to flip through.

_ “So I’ve finally managed to catch up to you.” _

The sybillant voice, gruff like a horrid bear, caused her to turn in mild alarm, and then, she supposed, that the autumn’s endeavors were rendered entirely fruitless.

She grit her teeth, trying a spectacular attempt at hiding her displeasure, her misery, and failing swimmingly. 

_ “Lord Sake.”  _ She dipped into a hasty curtsy, quickly returning to her book, now not registering the words on the page, in order to avoid confronting the beast.

“That’s all in the way of greeting, Lady Sinclair?” He asked, and she could hear the electricity in his voice, the rasp and the feeling of crawling ants, as he sidled up to her, running broad fingers across the spines of books with far less reverence than she. She instinctively moved a little farther, clutched her book a little tighter. 

“Is the greeting not to your liking?”

“Well--” he stopped, and when he looked up at her his scar crinkled, twisting viciously as he smiled languidly, a horrible set of his teeth. “After the way we left each other  _ last  _ time I was expecting you to have more colorful words for me--”

_ “Oh--”  _ she snarled, matching his smile with a cruel one of her own. “You would like better words from me? A simple civility is not sufficient?”

He shook his head in a mockery of rueful pity, of sadness.  **“You know I would love nothing more than to listen to you--”**

“Liar.” She stated bitterly, returning to her book and folding her thumb across a page. The man behind the stall looked warily between the two of them, his hand gripping the seat he’d been reclining on. So it was palpable then; the war of the two foxes, at each other's necks.

“So--” he laughed, and it was not a nice laugh, everything the opposite--”You’re still the same!”

She turned sharply. “What--?”

But he was close, and his voice had dropped to a dreadful whisper. 

_ “You’re still playing that lying game, Lauren?” _

She reeled backward, her hand poised to slap him, but his words came fast, soft and silent and deadly to her composure.

“Your uncle told me of your little proposal this morning.”

She snarled. “Does he tell you of my daily habits on a regular timetable? Or am I to have any privacy in my own home?”

“--He was lamenting about your lack of awareness of your age and your prospects--”

“I am  _ perfectly  _ aware of how-- _ disappointing  _ he must feel me to be.” Lauren stopped at the admission, looking down at the book in her hands.

“Then--?” He laughed. “Why are you still being so difficult? After all--nobody would  _ really  _ believe you if--”

“You--” she hissed--”do  _ not  _ get to say anything--after what you did to my parents--”

“Oh?” His lips curved. “You’re going to bring  _ that  _ up? That-- _ little  _ delight of mine--”

Lauren felt flame hot anger rise up in her throat like bile, and before she could snap the book shut with a decisive bang and constrict him indefinitely, a hand fell on his shoulder, and a deep voice resounded from behind them.

_ “Is he bothering you, Miss?” _

Tim turned slowly at the new voice entering the fray, his lips curling upward in a sneer, displaying gums and teeth at the newcomer, the interloper, all silent footsteps and hushed breath, disguised beneath a knitted scarf.

“Well-- _ Lord White.  _ There’s another I haven’t seen in years.”

He stood there, hands hidden placidly in a long coat the color of an unassuming mouse, and his azure eyes glinted underneath harsh lashes, his cheeks flushed with the autumn chill and his hair a storm around his face. He looked so imposing, so utterly a contrast to the silent thing she’d seen every season since, that this new spectre nearly stole her breath, as his own fanned about him in wisps of white smoke,

“Lord Sake.” He bowed, his voice deceptively polite—and hiding something else underneath. When he rose she almost missed it, but he shot her a keen look under his gaze, his figure gravitating subtly towards her side of the stall. 

“What a pleasure, Kieran.” Tim said, his eyes roving over the both of them lecherously, like a jaguar hidden amongst throngs of coats and ruffled hats. 

“You are such a sight—I regret not being able to speak with you this season.”

Kieran grinned, a smile that did not reach his eyes, though it was as wide as the most sycophantic of lovers.

**“As have I.”** He said, and when he glanced over he did not miss the way Lauren’s eyes flashed. His own narrowed, as if he had confirmed something to himself.

“I do hope Bella gave you that—“

“She  _ did,  _ it was most kind of you to invite me.” He nodded.  **“I do regret not being able to entertain you at Netherfield this season—but many things arose, I am afraid.”**

Tim laughed. “I do not blame you in the slightest, Kieran. I, too—have been... _ busy.” _

Tim’s eyes drifted lower, to the way Kieran’s arm barely brushed against Lauren’s. His eyes widened, and he looked at Kieran mockingly.

“You two  _ know  _ each other! How—“

“Oh, we’ve met a couple times.” Lauren cut in, her voice sickly sweet, her fingers tapping a tune against the crook of her partner’s elbow. He seemed to get the message easily enough, smiling winningly and bending slightly in a little bow of deference.

“I do believe you have an appointment with Lord Hermann, Tim.” He paused. “I’ve just come from his place, he told me as such.”

Tim frowned. “Hm. I see.” He checked his watch, and Lauren watched his gnarled fingers press over the gold engravings, no less reverent than a scientist’s care for a butterfly specimen. Then, with a wry smile, he looked up at the both of them, raising his palm to finger his cap in a gesture of goodbye.

“That is so. I’m afraid I must leave the both of you—“

His eyes once again fell on Lauren, and she suppressed a shiver by digging her fingers harder into Kieran’s coat sleeves, a fact that did not go unseen by the latter. 

“Have a wonderful evening.” 

And with that he disappeared once more into the sea of people surging around the stalls, leaving Kieran and Lauren, the unfortunate pair, alone amongst hundreds. 

Lauren separated from him with a cough, turning her back to continue perusing the stacks of books and pointedly ignoring the shopkeeper’s raised brows. For a while they did not say anything, and all was silent, all was a chasm between them.

Then, finally, unable to take it, Lauren Sinclair took an axe to the thick tension surrounding them. 

“How long were you standing there, Lord White?” And her voice was embarrassingly tiny, soft and hesitant like meringue, like clouds, deceptively light.

“Hm.” He hummed, his deep voice infecting. “Long enough, Lady Sinclair. Enough to hear him making light of a—rejection, is that it?” 

And damn him, he was probably smiling. 

“You know each other?” She asked, ignoring him.

“I do—“ he stopped. “And you do too, apparently.”

She started, and he continued. _ “‘What he did to your parents’, _ hm—?”

“It’s really none of your business, I think.” She shot back, furious that he would try to pry as such, her fingers angrily searching through leaflets and pages as a distraction. She could feel him come up beside her, could see his own fingers begin to thumb through a stack of paper copies, the titles blurring together underneath his skin.

“Well, it seems you aren’t too fond of him, in any case.”

She turned over her shoulder, noting his intense gaze on hers, causing a shiver to course through her spine that she attributed to the blade of frost in the air. 

“I am not. And it looks as though you aren’t, either.”

“Hah!” He threw back his head and barked. “It appears I’ve found something we have to agree with.”

“What an accomplishment!” She sang, her voice still terse. “I do fear it is the last time we shall do so.”

“I do hope for such a situation.”

Silence, the only sound being the intermittent shuffling of pages. Then, Lauren spoke, her voice hesitant, prideful.

“...Thank you.” She sighed.

He swiveled to regard her, only for her to avert her gaze, wave a hand. “For helping me.”

He smiled incredulously. “Lady Sinclair, paying me a compliment? My, it will snow today, I think.”

“Hm. It’s not far off.” She shrugged. “Winter is near.”

He sighed, looking down. “That it is.”

More awkward silence. She felt like crawling out of her skin. She picked up another book absentmindedly, running her fingers over the spine, not really registering the title at all.

“That’s a good book.” 

She looked over at him curiously. He was not looking at her, though his eyes had darted forth for a mere moment, a simple wisp of cold blue. She looked down at the book in her hands, finally finding the steadily engraved lettering on the leather spine.

_ The Secret Garden. _

“Ah.” She nodded, unwilling to look at him. “It is. I used to read it when I was younger—“

“—Likewise.” He said hurriedly. They stopped, gazes finally meeting.

There was something odd in the way he looked at her; like he could not quite puzzle out what he was looking at. It reminded her of that day last summer, set to a background track of cicada song and purple hyacinths, when he’d been soaked in river water, drops running in rivulets down his neck and ending at his open shirt, disappearing behind waves of milky white fabric. He’d looked at her then like he was now, incredulous, perhaps even slightly scornful, like she was a painting he was working on that just wouldn't turn out.

Well. She’d leave him to his vices.

A slight cough cut through the haze, and they turned to find the shopkeeper staring at the both of them, an expectant look on his face.

“You goin’ ta buy somethin’? Or—“

“Ah—“ Lauren looked down at the book in her hands, before hastily digging through her purse, trying to find her coin—

And then paused, because Kieran had leaned forward, placing two gold pence on the table, twice what it was worth.

“Keep the change.” 

He looked back at her, and her shocked and affronted face made him laugh.

“Read it! Hope it’ll bring some joy to that taut face.”

_ “Excuse—“ _

“Shall I see you home?” He inquired politely, as though his insults meant nothing to her.

“No.” She replied firmly, already starting off past him, honey trailing behind her in a bloom of her breath in the chilly autumn air. “It's still day, I can see myself home. The mansion isn’t far.”

She only paused once, looking back over her shoulder.

“Good day, Lord White.”

He hummed. “Good morrow, Lady Sinclair.”

When she paused again, it wasn’t due to her own volition. It was due to something tugging her back, something leaving her with a waning feeling in her chest, like there was a part of her that had something to say, yet. Lauren Sinclair, she did always want the last word.

Turning, though, she found nothing. He was gone, not even a wisp of cloudy breath in the air. She tried to scan the throngs of people in the market for a mop of dark hair, for the sway of a mouse-grey coat, but found nothing but attire of the very same.

Perhaps that was for the better.

If she squinted hard enough, she thought, perhaps she would see a thin veneer of snow, tumbling from the sky like cotton spools.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slightly less effusive jazz hands*
> 
> Two days late but here we are! Sorry sorry ik I promised this Friday but like,,,oof
> 
> This chapter took me and body slammed me into the concrete. I was NOT vibing with it. But! I’m here now and I’m looking forward the next few chapters 👀
> 
> I was on and off debating whether to switch Tim/Dylan, but I think in terms of the *cough* lune action *cough* I have planned, Tim works better for Wickham than a Collins. But that was a huge contention on my part. Dylan deserves more than the “please marry me by the way I love the scones you have prepared,” so sorry my little flower child :)
> 
> And now the void of academics consumes me! Thank you for your patience :D Comments/kudos are chrysanthemums <3
> 
> Insta: @artsofisha
> 
> -thumbipeach

**Author's Note:**

> *jazz hands*
> 
> Just a little thing I’ll be writing alongside TLoF before I get to—another longfic 👀
> 
> Haven’t decided exactly how long it’ll be (you know me I don’t plan a damn thing), but 6-8 chapters sounds sufficient. This will be a VERY loose retelling, with some new twists and turns 👀👀I’m basing this on the 2005 movie and—sparknotes. Because lazy ;)
> 
> Comments/kudos are my calla lilies, as always. Love you all <3 hope you enjoy this silly little thing!
> 
> Insta: @artsofisha
> 
> -thumbipeach


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